ide," in her guarded chamber, may be left to the speculation
of the curious. The servants had access to their mistress's room.
That afternoon Miss Blandy asked Robert Harman, the footman, to go
away with her immediately--to France, says one account--and offered
him L500 if he would do so. He refused. At night, by her request,
the cook, Betty Binfield, sat up with her. "Betty, will you go away
with me?" she cried, so soon as they were alone. "If you will go to
the Lion or the Bell and hire a post-chaise, I will give you fifteen
guineas when you get into it, and ten guineas more when we come to
London!" "Where will you go--into the North?" inquired the cautious
cook; "Shall you go by sea?" and learning that the proposed
excursion would include a voyage, Betty, being, as appears, a bad
sailor, declined the offer. Her mistress then "burst into laughter,"
and said she was only joking! In the _Narrative_, written after her
condemnation, Mary boldly denies that these significant incidents
occurred; in her more elaborate _Account_ she makes no reference to
the subject. Those who saw her at this time testify to her extreme
anxiety regarding her own situation, but say she showed no sign of
sorrow, compassion, or remorse for her father's death.

The person charged with the duty of warding Mary in her chamber was
Edward Herne, parish clerk of Henley, who some twelve years before
had been employed in Mr. Blandy's office, and had since remained on
intimate terms with the family. It would appear, from an allusion in
a contemporary tract, that Herne was that "Mr. H----" whose
pretensions to the hand of the attorney's daughter had once been
politely rejected. If so, probably he still preserved sufficient of
his former feeling to sympathise with her position and wink at her
escape. Be the fact as it may, at ten o'clock next morning,
Thursday, 15th August, Ned Herne, as Mary names him, leaving his
fair charge unguarded, went off to dig a grave for his old master.
So soon as the coast was clear, Mary, with "nothing on but a
half-sack and petticoat without a hoop," ran out of the house into
the street and over Henley bridge, in a last wild attempt to cheat
her fate. Her distraught air and strange array attracted instant
notice. She was quickly recognised and surrounded by an angry
crowd--for the circumstances of Mr. Blandy's death were now common
knowledge, and the Coroner's jury was to sit that day. Alarmed by
her hostile reception, she s