Lucky enough,' says
she, 'that Mr. Melcombe be away.'"
"Why was it lucky?"
"Because they'd both set their eyes on the same face--they had. It's
hard to cry shame on the dead, but they had. And _she's_ dead too.
Neither on 'em meant any good to her. They had words about her. She'd
have nought to say to Mr. Cuthbert then."
Valentine groaned.
"No, nor she wouldn't after I'n seen the ghost, nor till every soul
said he was dead and drowned, and the letter come from London town."
"There must have been others beside you," said Valentine, sharply,
"other people passing in and out of the laundry door. Why did no one see
him but you--see it but you?"
"It were not the laundry door, sir, 'twere the door in the garden wall,
close by the grete pear-tree, as it went in at; Madam shut up that door
for ever so many years--'e can't mistake it."
"Ah!"
"That's the place, sir."
"And who was fool enough first to call it a ghost?" cried Valentine
almost fiercely. "No, no, I mean," he continued faltering--"I don't know
what I mean," and he dropped his face into his hands, and groaned.
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