“What were you doing in there?” Sister Joanna, breathing heavily as if she had been running, barked the question hoarsely at her. Mary stared a moment, a sort of terror creeping over her at that harsh brutal voice heard twice in the same day. Some swift instinct warned her to conceal what she felt.
“I have been praying, Sister,” she answered quietly. “Praying that our little Rosalie may be found.”
Slowly the grip on her arm relaxed, and as though nothing untoward had happened, she moved across to the fire and lifted the saucepan.
“I’m afraid my Irish stew is burning! I hope it won’t taste.”
She was talking to hide something. A terrible inspiration had come to her that she must not share with Sister Joanna the discovery she had just made; and as she shook the saucepan with one hand, with the other she slipped the necklace into her pocket. Then she lighted the kitchen lamp, and got out the teapot.
“I’m just going to make you a cup of tea, Sister,” she said cheerfully. “I expect you are dead beat.”
The old woman had sunk into a chair by the table, but her eyes had a strange glare in them as she watched Mary, who affecting not to notice, bustled about rattling the tea-things.
“I can see you are just tired out, and as nervous and worried as ever you can be.” Mary’s arm was still tingling with pain, and that may have had something to do with her newly discovered powers of acting; but the sky-blue eyes still glared. At last, the tea was made and poured out.
“And now tell me, Sister dear,—is there any news yet?”
Sister Joanna gave a sigh as if some tight band round her had suddenly been loosened and she had breathing space once more.