She was indeed broken-hearted. She had lost Mary and the Scheme—the only two affections in the whole world for her; so she had gone away, as a wounded wild beast does, to die alone in some out-of-the-way spot in the wilderness of London where no one knew her. When she changed her residence, she left behind her no clue by which she might be traced. She avoided even her one faithful friend, Sister Eliza, whose society was now painful to her for the memories it called up—a standing reproach.
For a few moments Catherine King looked into Susan's face, a bitter smile playing on her lips the while, then she addressed her.
"And what are you doing in this part of the world, my old associate?"
"That is my business, Mrs. King, and not yours," hissed out Susan.
"Indeed, Sister Susan! I am not so sure of that," said Catherine, quietly. "But I have not come down here to argue with you, but to give you certain orders which you will have to obey."
"Orders! from you!—obey you! Why, you must be mad!"
"You think so!" continued Catherine, as quietly as ever. "Well, to begin with, I know why you have been down here so much lately. I know whom you are hunting down."
"Catherine King! too much learning has made you mad!" exclaimed Susan, with a derisive laugh which could not conceal the uneasiness she really felt.
"Mad, perhaps; but not so mad that I cannot put a stop—and at once, too—to all this plotting of yours, Sister Susan."