She was old Mother Holf, one of whose sons, Johann, had betrayed to us the secret of the dungeon at Zenda, while the other had died by Mr.
Rassendyll's hand by the side of the great pipe that masked the king's window.

Her presence might mean nothing, yet it seemed at once to connect the house with the secret of the past and the crisis of the present.
She recovered herself in a moment, and curtseyed to me.
"Ah, Mother Holf," said I, "how long is it since you set up shop in Strelsau ?" "About six months, my lord," she answered, with a composed air and arms akimbo.
"I have not come across you before," said I, looking keenly at her.
"Such a poor little shop as mine would not be likely to secure your lordship's patronage," she answered, in a humility that seemed only half genuine.
I looked up at the windows.

They were all closed and had their wooden lattices shut.

The house was devoid of any signs of life.
"You've a good house here, mother, though it wants a splash of paint," said I."Do you live all alone in it with your daughter ?" For Max was dead and Johann abroad, and the old woman had, as far as I knew, no other children.
"Sometimes; sometimes not," said she.

"I let lodgings to single men when I can." "Full now ?" "Not a soul, worse luck, my lord." Then I shot an arrow at a venture.
"The man who came in just now, then, was he only a customer ?" "I wish a customer had come in, but there has been nobody," she replied in surprised tones.
I looked full in her eyes; she met mine with a blinking imperturbability.