When she had completed her purchases, Miss Chase took her way to a retired and somewhat unpleasant part of the town. She had her vail drawn, and hurried along as if anxious not to be observed by any chance acquaintance.
She stopped before a decent looking tenement-house, ascended the steps, glanced about with her habitual caution, to see that no one was watching her, and entered the hall. She mounted the weary staircase, which appeared interminable, passed through several dark entries, and at length knocked at one of the doors which opened into a passage nearest the roof.
Twice she knocked, the second time imperatively and with impatience; then a querulous voice called out:
"Come in, can't you; the door isn't locked."
So Miss Chase turned the knob, opened the door, and entered a small, plainly furnished room, yet bearing no evidence of the extreme poverty which often makes the tenement-house so dreary.
A woman was seated near the little window, in a stiff-backed chair, dividing her attention between a half-finished stocking and a number of some weekly newspaper of the cheapest class, full of wonderful cuts and more wonderful stories.
She looked up quickly as Miss Chase entered, gave out an evil, wicked glance, which appeared natural to her, although the general appearance of her face was quiet and commonplace enough.
"So you've come," was her only salutation.
"Yes; did you expect me?"
"I expected you three days ago."