“But you are a guest, Janet.”
“I shall not accept a salary, Mrs. Lawson.”
“Very well, my dear, if you wish it that way.”
“Thank you very much.”
“To get back to our former topic,” Mrs. Lawson said, and lit a cigarette. “I can understand that your father’s conduct in confining you to your room might be exasperating—but why should it make you nervous? And my husband tells me that when he visited you in your room you acted as though you were in deadly fear of something or somebody every time he saw you. What was the trouble, Janet? Was anything worrying you?”
“Yes, there was, Mrs. Lawson.”
Dorothy looked down at the andirons, and her hands on the chair arms twisted embarrassedly. From the corner of her eye she saw a smile of satisfaction light up the older woman’s face. She knew she was playing with fire and that Mrs. Lawson was watching her as a hawk watches its defenseless prey before it strikes. But all unknown to her inquisitor, Dorothy had been leading her into this trap as a move forward in her own game. Genuine dislike for the woman as well as a mischievous impulse on her part drew her to make the scene as dramatic and convincing as possible.
“Yes—I—I—was afraid,” she went on, dragging out the words slowly.
“Then don’t you think you’d better tell me about it, Janet? I’m nearly old enough to be your mother. Let me take your mother’s place, dear. Give me your confidence. I feel sure I’ll be able to help you, child.”
This reference to Janet’s dead mother by a woman who was the vilest kind of a hypocrite swept away Dorothy’s last compunction. She herself was going to commit justifiable libel. Mrs. Lawson, on the other hand, was attempting to lead Janet Jordan into a confession of shamming sleep at the fateful meeting a week ago. And such a confession meant a sentence of death from this beautiful siren who gazed at her so winningly, who puffed a cigarette so nonchalantly while she waited for an unsuspecting girl to commit herself.