hone.
My call was answered by a woman with a thin, sharp voice.

'I am sorry,' she said in answer to my query, 'I must refuse to answer
any questions concerning Elizabeth Renshaw.'

'But you only need say "yes" or "no." Is she honest?'

'I am not in a position to give you a reply.'

'Am I to understand that she isn't sober?'

'I cannot answer that question.'

'Look here, she hasn't murdered any one, has she?'

'I am not in a position----'

'Oh, hang the woman,' I muttered, jerking up the receiver. But I felt
the situation was an awkward one. What sinister and turbid happenings
were connected with Elizabeth and her last place? I meditated. If she
were not sober it was, after all, no business of mine so long as she
got through her work. And if she didn't we should be no worse off than
we were at present.

If she were dishonest it might be awkward, certainly, but then there
was nothing of very much value in the house, Henry and I merely being
writers by profession. Most of our friends are writers, too, so we
have not the usual array of massive silver wedding gifts about the
place, but quite a lot of autograph photos and books instead. The
value of these might not be apparent to the casual pilferer. My
meditations got no further. I decided to lock up my silk stockings and
best handkerchiefs and engage Elizabeth without delay. As a matter of
fact, I afterwards discovered that her career had been blameless, while
she had every foundation for her favourite declaration, 'I wouldn't
take a used postage stamp, no, nor a rusty nail that wasn't my own.'

I do not condemn the woman I interviewed on the telephone,
reprehensible as was her conduct. Perhaps she, too, was living on eggs
and it had warped her better nature.

'I suppose you can cook all right?' I asked Elizabeth as ten minutes
later, all arrangements made, I accompanied her to the door.

'Me? I'm a rare 'and at cookin'. My friend's 'usband ses 'e's never
come across any one who can cook a steak like I can.'

'A steak,' I murmured ecstatically, 'richly brown with softly swelling
curves----'

'Rather underdone in the middle,' supplemented Elizabeth, 'just a
little bit o' fat, fairly crisp, a lump o' butter on the top, and I
always 'old that a dash o' fried onion improves the flavour.'

'How beautiful,' I murmured again. It sounded like a poem. Swinburne
or de Musset have never stirred me so deeply as did that simple
recitation.

Elizabet