In another quarter of an hour Mrs. Tawsey, dressed in her bridal gown and bonnet so as to crush Matilda with the sight of her splendor, walked down the garden path attended by Mrs. Purr in a snuffy black shawl, and a kind of cobweb on her head which she called a "bunnet." As Deborah was tall and in white and Mrs. Purr small and in black, they looked a strange pair. Sylvia waved her hand out of the window to Debby, as that faithful creature turned her head for a final look at the young mistress she idolized. The large, rough woman was dog-like in her fidelity.
Sylvia, left alone, proceeded to arrange matters. She went to the wash-house, which was detached from the cottage, and saw that the four women, who worked under Deborah, were busy. She found them all chattering and washing in a cheerful way, so, after a word or two of commendation, she returned to the sitting-room. Here she played a game of patience, arranged the tea-things although it was yet early, and finally settled down to one of Mrs. Henry Wood's interesting novels. She was quite alone and enjoyed the solitude. The wash-house was so far away, at the end of the yard, that the loud voices of the workers could not be heard. The road before Rose Cottage was not a popular thoroughfare, and it was rarely that anyone passed. Out of the window Sylvia could see a line of raw, red-brick villas, and sometimes a spurt of steam, denoting the presence of the railway station. Also, she saw the green fields and the sere hedges with the red berries, giving promise of a hard winter. The day was sunny but cold, and there was a feeling of autumnal dampness in the air. Deborah had lighted a fire before she went, that her mistress might be comfortable, so Sylvia sat down before this and read for an hour, frequently stopping to think of Paul, and wonder if he would come at the appointed hour of four or earlier. What with the warmth, and the reading, and the dreaming, she fell into a kind of doze, from which she was awakened by a sharp and peremptory knock. Wondering if her lover had unexpectedly arrived, though she did not think he would rap in so decided a manner, Sylvia rubbed the sleep out of her pretty eyes and hurried to the door. On the step she came face to face with Miss Maud Krill.
"Do you know me, Miss Norman?" asked Maud, who was smiling and suave, though rather white in the face.
"Yes. You came with your mother to Gwynne Street," replied Sylvia, wondering why she had been honored with a visit.
"Quite so. May I have a few minutes' conversation with you?"
"Certainly." Sylvia saw no reason to deny this request, although she did not like Miss Krill. But it struck her that something might be learned from that young woman relative to the murder, and thought she would have something to tell Paul about when he arrived. "Will you walk in, please," and she threw open the sitting-room door.
"Are you quite alone?" asked Maud, entering, and seating herself in the chair near the fire.
"Quite," answered Sylvia, stiffly, and wondering why the question was asked; "that is, the four washerwomen are in the place at the back. But Mrs. Tawsey went to your house to see her sister."
"She arrived before I left," said Maud, coolly. "I saw them quarrelling in a most friendly way. Where is Mr. Beecot?"
"I expect him later."