It was not a command but an agonized entreaty. Mrs. Adams fairly jumped, and alarmed as well as offended, she rose and started for the door, only to meet her husband entering.
“Go downstairs, Esther,” he said, gravely, “I want to speak to Miss Austin myself.”
Staring at one then at the other, and utterly routed by this unbelievable turn of affairs, Mrs. Adams went.
Old Salt closed the room door, and turned to the trembling girl.
“Miss Austin,” he said kindly, “I like you, I want to help you—but I must ask you to explain yourself a little. The people in my house call you Miss Mystery. Why are you here? Why are you in Corinth at all?”
For a moment the girl seemed about to respond to his kindly, gentle attitude and address. Then, something stayed her, and she let her lovely face harden to a stony blankness, as she replied, “It is a bit intrusive, but I’ve no reason not to tell. I am an art student, and I came here to paint New England winter scenery.”
“Have you done much?”
“I haven’t been here quite a week yet—and I’ve been picking out available bits—and for two days I’ve had a cold.”
“How did you get cold?” The voice was kind but it had a definite note, as if desirous of an accurate answer.
Miss Mystery looked at him.