“Good morning, Miss Austin,” the good lady said, soon after, “better this morning?”
“Yes, thank you. My cold is almost entirely well.”
The girl was sitting by the window, in an easy chair. She had on a Japanese dressing gown of quilted silk, embroidered with chrysanthemums, and was listlessly gazing out across the snow covered field opposite.
The Adams house was on the outskirts of the little town, and separated by a wide field from the Waring place.
“Heard the news about Doctor Waring?” Mrs. Adams said, in a casual tone, but watching the girl closely.
“No; what is it?”
The words were simple, and the voice steady, but Miss Austin’s hands clutched the arms of the chair, and her face turned perfectly white.
“Why, what ails you? You don’t know the man, do you?”
“I—I heard him lecture, you know. Tell me—what is the—the news?”
“He’s dead.” Mrs. Adams spoke bluntly on purpose. She had felt in a vague way, that this strange person, this Miss Mystery, had more interest in Doctor Waring than she admitted, and the landlady was determined to find out.