"Good gracious!" I said. "These are the clothes of some wretched
creature who must have been in the last stage of poverty. The dress
is ragged and mud-stained, the old red flannel petticoat almost in
ribbons, the bonnet battered and black with grease. Faugh!
put the things down."
Dorcas was not inclined to abandon her find so readily, but
presently she put the rags slowly back in the cupboard. "I wonder
what he's done with the body?" she said quietly.
I must confess that when Dorcas said that, I had an uncomfortable,
creepy sensation. Could it be possible that such a wretched creature
as these locked-up rags had once belonged to had been done to death
in an empty house by the millionaire of Berkeley Square?
Dorcas must have divined my thoughts. "Are you wondering if the body
of the woman who wore these things is concealed on the premises?"
she said.
"Something of the sort was in my mind."
"And I don't know what to think," said Dorcas. "If the body is
buried, why on earth were not these accusing rags buried with it?"
We went downstairs, and as we walked through the silent, deserted
passages of the basement, I felt suspiciously uncomfortable. A rat
ran squeaking behind the wainscot, and I am ashamed to say that in
my overwrought nervous condition I couldn't help giving a little
cry of alarm.