She averted her face as she spoke; her mouth was quivering, and her hands trembled.
"You've lost a baby of this age in the accident, maybe?" enquired Martha.
"No; I have lost nobody. I only thought—I expected——" She spoke wildly, almost hysterically, casting swift, uneasy glances at the child, and as quickly turning away her eyes.
"You expected?" said Miss Sherbourne interrogatively, for the stranger had broken off in the middle of the sentence.
"Nothing—nothing at all! I'm sorry to have troubled you. I must go at once, for my carriage is waiting."
"Then you don't know the child?"
"I don't," the stranger repeated emphatically; "not in the slightest. I tell you I have never seen it in my life before!"
She left the room as abruptly as she had entered, without even the civility of a good-bye; addressed a few hurried words in a low tone to the landlord in the hall, then, entering her conveyance, drove off into the rapidly gathering darkness.
"There's something queer about her," said Martha, watching the departure over the top of the short window blind. "She was ready to take her oath that she'd never set eyes on the child before, but the sight of it sent her crazy. Deny what she may, if you ask me, it's my firm opinion she was telling a lie."
"Surely no one would refuse to acknowledge it!" exclaimed Miss Barbara. "She seemed so terribly agitated and upset, she must have expected to find some other baby, and have been disappointed."