Bessie looked over her shoulder. It was Mr. Bartley Bradstone.
“You know him!” she said, instantly. “Does he know anything of the murder; does he——”
The woman shuddered as she watched him go up the stairs.
“No, it’s a fate!” she gasped. “Oh, I’m afraid to tell, afraid, afraid!” and she seemed unable to remove her eyes from his receding figure.
Bessie almost shook her in her agony of suspense.
“You must!” she said. “You have gone too far.”
“If I must!” panted the woman. “Yes, he does know. Don’t let him go! Do you hear? Stop him! Follow him——”
In her uncertainty and excitement, Bessie took half-a-dozen steps toward the station platform.
Then she turned, and, with a start, found a man standing between her and the woman, who was cowering against the wall, as if she had just received a blow.
“What, you, Liz!” he said, addressing the woman, but keeping his eyes on Bessie. “You’re drunk again, are yer? What plant have you been a-puttin’ on this young lady? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What’s she been a-sayin’, miss?” And he turned to Bessie with a half-threatening, half-whining air. “Something about this yer murder, wasn’t it? Blessed if this yer murder haven’t gone and turned my missis’ head. Don’t pay any attention to her, miss! I ’umbly begs pardon for her. She ought to know better than to stop a lady with her rubbidge!” and, seizing the woman’s arm, he hurried her to the steps.