"So my labor was not entirely wasted!" she cried. "You saw—"
"Both the lines and the writer," I completed, relentlessly preserving the advantage I felt myself to have gained—"the lines before they were defaced by the storm, the writer as she picked up the useless paper and went away."
"So!" she commented, with another echo of that joyless laughter; "there are two spies instead of one in this game!"
"There are two women instead of one who know your enmity and purpose,"
I retorted.
"How came you at the mill?" she suddenly asked, after a moment of silent communion with her own repressed soul.
"By accident," was all my reply.
"Were you alone?"
"I was."
"Then no one but yourself saw the paper?"
"No one but myself."