At luncheon, Trask took occasion to eulogize Miss Austin.
Helen Peyton stood it as long as she could, and then broke out with: “I don’t see what you can find to admire in that thin, sallow little thing! And, beside, she is a wicked girl. I think she killed Doctor Waring, but even if she didn’t, she came over here to see him, secretly, late at night, and if that isn’t wrong-doing, I don’t know what is! But just because she puts up a helpless bluff, all the men fall for her!”
“Jealous, Miss Peyton?” and Trask looked at her shrewdly.
“No,” Helen tossed her head. “I’ve no reason to be. That girl is nothing to me, and the sooner she gets out of Corinth the better. If the police will let her go!”
“Now then, Miss Peyton,” Trask began, in his most emphatic manner, “and Mrs. Peyton, too, once for all, I will hear no word against Miss Austin in my house. Put any meaning you like into that, but remember it. One word against Anita Austin, and the speaker of it goes out of my door never to return. Am I clear?”
“Clear? Yes; but I can tell you—”
“Hush, Helen,” said her mother. “We want to stay here, don’t we? Well, then, as Mr. Trask is evidently much in earnest, I insist that you obey his wishes—as I shall.”
“That’s right, Mrs. Peyton. And if your daughter forgets my hints I trust to you to keep her reminded. That’s all about that.”
In this fashion Maurice Trask settled every question that arose. His word was law, and he spoke no unnecessary words.
The servants could obey or leave. The housekeeper had been told the same, and the secretary understood it, too.