Mrs. Hesketh, who was awaiting her friend in the lounge, looked unusually solemn as she asked, “What have you done with the girl?”
“She has gone to the post. I think, dear Cousin Maude, she has a sort of instinct that you don’t care for her.”
“Let us have tea at once,” said her friend, brusquely ignoring the question; “afterwards, we will go up to my room and hold a meeting.”
As the tea proceeded, Letty was conscious that there was thunder in the atmosphere; the symptoms were as clear as when a storm was collecting in the neighbouring mountains, and rugged old Pilatus arrayed himself as a preliminary, in a series of scarf-like clouds. Although Mrs. Hesketh talked spasmodically of home news, and exchanged civil greetings with acquaintances, her manner was abstracted. Undoubtedly some subject lay heavily on her mind, and Letty hurried over her tea, declining a second cup, and said:
“Do let us go upstairs, I cannot bear suspense—anything is better than that.”
“So, then, you guess?” said her friend, leading the way to the sitting-room, and drawing forward two chairs on her balcony.
“I cannot guess what you may have to say,—only that I’m sure it is something to do with the child.”
“It has. Hitherto, excepting that night at the fête—and we might have been mistaken—we have had nothing to support suspicion, beyond Frau Hurter’s natural animosity towards a girl who has bewitched her son.”
“Yes,” agreed Letty breathlessly.
“And now, I have got hold of facts.”