Jane Foster's hand had crept up to her throat. She did not know what made her cold.
"My little girl—" she began, "her name is Judith—"
"Where is she?" said Mrs. Haldon in a breathless way.
"She is up-stairs," Jane answered slowly. "She goes—into that back room—on the fourth floor—"
Mrs. Haldon turned upon her with wide eyes.
"It is locked!" she said. "They put everything away. I have the key."
"The door opens for her," said Jane. "She goes to play with a little girl—who comes to her. I think she comes over the roof from the next house."
"There is no child there!" Mrs. Haldon shuddered. But it was not with horror. There was actually a wild dawning bliss in her face. "What is she like?"
"She is like the picture." Jane scarcely knew her own monotonous voice. The world of real things was being withdrawn from her and she was standing without its pale—alone with this woman and her wild eyes. She began to shiver because her warm blood was growing cold. "She is a child with red hair—and there is a deep dimple near her mouth. Judith told me. You must not touch her."
She heard a wild gasp—a flash of something at once anguish and rapture blazed across the haggard, young face—and with a swerving as if her slight body had been swept round by a sudden great wind, Mrs. Haldon turned and fled up the stairs.