Again we looked at one another questioningly, and our silence was like a fresh note of antagonism to her avowed purpose. She could not fail to notice it, and she commenced to talk of other things. I believe but for Mr. Deville’s presence she would have got up and left us. Open war with us women could not have troubled her in the least. Already I could tell that she had contracted a dislike to me. But for his sake she was evidently anxious—oppressively anxious—to keep friendly.
She tried to draw him into more personal conversation with her, and he seemed quite ready to humor her. He changed his seat and sat down by her side. Adelaide Fortress and I talked listlessly of the Bishop’s visit and our intending removal from the neighborhood. We studiously avoided all mention of my last visit to her and its sensational ending. We talked as ordinary acquaintances might have talked, about trifles. Yet we were both of us equally conscious that to a certain extent it was a farce. Presently there was a brief silence. The girl was talking to Mr. Deville, evidently of her brother.
“He was so fond of collecting old furniture,” she was saying. “So am I. He gave me a little cabinet, the image of this one, only mine was in black oak.”
She bent over a little piece of furniture by her side, and looked at it with interest.
“Mine was exactly this shape,” she continued; “only it had a wonderful secret spring. You pressed it just here and the top flew up, and there was space enough for a deed or a photograph.”
She touched a portion of the woodwork idly as she spoke, and there was a sort of click. Then she sprang to her feet with a little tremulous cry.
A portion of the back of the cabinet had rolled back at the touch of her fingers. A cabinet photograph was disclosed in the niche. She was bending over it with pale cheeks and bloodless lips.
“What is it?” I cried, with a sudden pain at my heart. “What have you found there?”
She turned around and faced Adelaide Fortress. Her eyes were flashing fire.