"Because it was this woman who murdered your first wife, Lady Carset's daughter!"
More than the stillness of death settled upon that room. The two girls hushed their sobs, and clung closer together in awful silence. The man and the woman, on whom these words had fallen like a rock hurled from some great high stood living and human, but struck into marble by a single blow. The man could not move; the woman did not seem to breathe. Hannah Yates went on, her voice low, but ringing out clear and distinctly like a funeral knell:
"On the twenty-first of June, now more than fifteen years ago, I saw you, Lord Hope, come out of a house in Forty-third Street, in New York.
"You know the house, and can never forget who lived in it. That day I had carried your child to see its mother, and left word at home for my son, Daniel Yates, to go after her; for I had business with a woman at one of the theatres, and was not sure of coming back in time. The woman I expected to see was not there; but it took me a long time to walk back, and it was about ten o'clock when I reached the house in Forty-third Street. Thinking it possible that Daniel might not have come home from his work till late, I was crossing the street to go in and inquire about the child, when the front door opened, and you came down the steps, with a fierce, angry air, such as I had seen many a time on this side the water. I knew that your presence in that house could have no peaceful meaning, and went over. I had a latch-key, and did not need to ring.
"The hall was dark—everything was still below; but a sound of weeping and moans of distress came from my lady's chamber. I went up and found her in the dark, lying across her bed, trembling dreadfully. She shrieked when I bent over her, and it was not till I got a light that she would be satisfied that it was only me. Then she sat up, and, in a rapid way, told me that you had been there after the child, and would have it but that the little creature had crept away and could not be found anywhere in the house. She must have got into the street, and you would find her, or she might be lost. She begged me to go at once and look for the child, and wanted to go with me; but I would not let her do that. I took her arms from my neck—for, in her joy at seeing the old woman, she had flung them there—made her lie down on the bed, and went away, promising to come back if I did not find the child; but, if I did, it was to be carried to my own house, as she was afraid to trust it near her. With this understanding I left her to search for the little girl.
"She may have crept down to the basement door and be hiding under the steps, I thought. Of course, the little thing would be afraid to go out into the streets. So the first thing I did was to run down into the area. In my haste I had left the door ajar, and bethought myself to go back and shut it, but while I was searching the area a woman ran up the steps and, pushing the door open, went into the house.
"At first I thought it was one of the servants, for they all appeared to be out, but she had on a striped India shawl, such as ladies wore in travelling, and a straw bonnet, from which the veil had blown back. These were not things worn by servants; besides, her air and walk convinced me that this woman was of another class. As she entered the door I saw her face for a single moment, but long enough to show me that I had never seen it before.
"The child was not in the area. I rang the basement bell, meaning to question the servants, but no one answered it. Then I hesitated where to go next, and as I stood in the shadow of the steps thinking the matter over, this same woman came through the door, shut it without noise, and ran down to the pavement. I saw her face clearly then, for the street lamp was bright. It was that of the woman by your side, Lord Hope."
Rachael Closs turned a pallid face upon her husband.
"Will you permit this woman to go on? Is this hideous lie a thing for my husband to encourage by his silence? Who is this audacious woman?"