Estelle gave a shriek and threw herself on her bed in apparent hysterics.
“Don’t begin that!” ordered Pauline, “sit up here and tell the truth.”
“But,” and the maid sat up, sobbing, “I know nothing. How can I?”
“Nonsense! You took the tea-tray to her at eight o’clock. What did you see?”
Estelle shrugged her shoulders. “I saw Miss Carrington sitting before her mirror. She, I assumed, was engrossed in reverie, so I set down the tray on a tabouret and departed.”
“You noticed nothing amiss?” said Anita, staring at the girl.
“No; I scarce looked at the lady. She reproved me harshly last night, and I had no wish to annoy her. I set down the tray with haste and silently departed.”
“You set it down? Who, then, overturned it?”
“Overturned? Is it then upset?” Estelle’s manner was the impersonal one of the trained servant, who must show surprise at nothing, but it was a trifle overdone.
“Estelle, stop posing. Wake up to realities. Miss Carrington is dead! Do you hear? Dead!”