Mr. Munder—who had forgotten, nevertheless.
"And don't you imagine that I was
going to commit myself" (the very thing
which he had just been on the point of doing).
"Leave this business in my hands, if you
will be so good. What reasons did you say,
ma'am?" he added aloud, addressing himself
to Sarah. "Never you mind about reasons;
we have not got to do with them now; we
have got to do with facts, and circumstances,
and events. Be so good as to remember
that, and to listen to what I was saying, and
not to interrupt me again. I was observing,
or remarking, that you, sir, and you, ma'am,
were shown over this Mansion. You were
conducted, and indeed led, up the west stair-
case—the Spacious west staircase, sir!—You
were shown with politeness, and even with
courtesy, through the breakfast-room, the
library, and the drawing-room. In that
drawing-room, you, sir, indulge in outrageous,
and, I will add, in violent language. In that
drawing-room you, ma'am, disappear, or rather,
go altogether out of sight. Such conduct as
this, so highly unparalleled, so entirely
unprecedented, and so very unusual, causes
Mrs. Pentreath and myself to feel——"
Here Mr. Munder stopped, at a loss for a
word for the first time.

"Astonished," suggested Mrs. Pentreath,
after a long interval of silence.

"No, ma'am!" retorted Mr. Munder
severely. "Nothing of the sort. We were
not at all astonished; we were—surprised.
And what followed and succeeded that?
What did you and I hear, sir, on the first-floor?"
(looking sternly at Uncle Joseph).
"And what did you hear, Mrs. Pentreath,
while you were searching for the missing
and absent party on the second-floor?
What?"

Thus personally appealed to, the housekeeper
answered briefly:—"A scream."

"No! no! no!" said Mr. Munder,
fretfully tapping his hand on the table. "A
screech, Mrs. Pentreath—a screech. And
what is the meaning, purport, and upshot of
that screech? Young woman!" (here Mr.
Munder turned suddenly on Betsey)—"we
have now traced these extraordinary, these
singular,  and indeed these odd, facts and
circumstances  as far as you. Have the goodness to
step forward, and tell us, in the presence of
these two parties, how you came to utter, or
give, what Mrs. Pentreath calls a scream, but
what I call a screech. A plain statement
will do, my good girl—quite a plain statement,
if you please. And, young woman,
one word more,—speak up. You understand
me? Speak up!"

Covered with confusion by the public and
solemn nature of this appeal, Betsey, on
starting with her statement, unconsciously
followed the oratorical example of no less a
person than Mr. Munder himself; that is to
say, she spoke on the principle of drowning
the smallest possible infusion of ideas in the
largest possible dilution of words. Extricated
from the mesh of verbal entanglement in
which she contrived to involve it, her statement
may be not unfairly represented as
simply consisting of the following facts:—

First, Betsey had to relate that she
happened to be just taking the lid off a saucepan,
on the kitchen fire, when she heard, in the
neighbourhood of the housekeeper's room, a
sound of hurried footsteps (vernacularly
termed by the witness, a "scurrying of
somebody's feet"). Secondly, Betsey, on leaving
the kitchen to ascertain what the sound
meant, heard the footsteps retreating rapidly
along the passage which led to the north
side of the house, and, stimulated by curiosity,
followed the sound of them, for a certain
distance. Thirdly, at a sharp turn in the
passage, Betsey stopped short, despairing of
overtaking the person whose footsteps she
heard, and feeling also a sense of dread
(termed by the witness, "creeping of the
flesh") at the idea of venturing alone, even in
broad daylight, into the ghostly quarter of
the house. Fourthly, while still hesitating
at the turn in the passage, Betsey heard
"the lock of a door go," and, stimulated
afresh by curiosity, advanced a few steps
farther—then, stopped again, debating within
herself the difficult and dreadful question:
whether it is the usual habit and custom of
ghosts in general, when passing from one
place to another, to unlock any closed door
which may happen to be in their way, or to
save trouble by simply passing through it?
Fifthly, after long deliberation, and many
false starts, forward towards the north hall
and backward towards the kitchen, Betsey
decided that it was the immemorial custom
of all ghosts to pass through doors and not
to unlock them. Sixthly, fortified by this
conviction, Betsey went on boldly close to the
door, when she suddenly heard a loud report
as of some heavy body falling (graphically
termed by the witness a "banging scrash").
Seventhly, the noise frightened Betsey out
of her wits, brought her heart up into her
mouth, and took away her breath. Eighthly,
and lastly, on recovering breath enough to
scream (or screech) Betsey did, with might
and main, scream (and screech), running back
towards the kitchen as fast as her legs would
carry her, with all her hair "standing up on
end," and all her flesh "in a crawl" from
the crown of her head to the soles of her
feet.

"Just so! Just so!" said Mr. Munder,
when the statement came to a close—as if
the sight of a young woman with all her
hair standing on end and all her flesh in a
crawl, were an ordinary result of his daily
experience of female humanity. "Just so! You
may stand back, my good girl—you may
stand back. There is nothing to smile at,
sir," he continued, sternly addressing Uncle
Joseph, who had been excessively amused by
Betsey's manner of delivering her evidence.