"Some one was there yesterday."
"Um," O'Malley's voice showed a pondering concentration of thought. "Some one was lying on the bed reading; waiting or passing time."
"They couldn't have been there to-day—before your men were on the job?"
O'Malley drew himself to the edge of the seat, his chest inflated with a sudden breath:
"Why couldn't they? Why couldn't that have been the rendezvous? Why couldn't she have lost the child down here on Gayle Street instead of opposite Justin's? Price was there beforehand: up she comes, tips him off that the taxi's in the street, sees him leave and goes herself, across to Fifth Avenue where she picks up a cab. It's safer than the other way—no cops round, janitor in the basement, if she's seen nothing to be remarked—a lady known to have a room on the top floor." He brought his fist down on his knee. "That's what they did and it explains what's been puzzling me."
"What?"
"There was no dust on the top of the bureau; it had been wiped off to-day. There was no dust on that veil; it hadn't been there since yesterday. A woman fixed herself at that glass not so long ago. Price had a date with her to deliver the child and he was lying on the bed reading while he waited. When he heard her he threw down the book, got the good word and lit out. After he'd gone she took off her veil—what for? To get her face up to show to Mrs. Price—whiten it, make it look right for the news she was bringing. When she left she was made up for the part she was to play. And I take my hat off to her, for she played it like a star."
[CHAPTER XIX—MOLLY'S STORY]
It was nearly seven when we got back to Grasslands. We alighted as silent as we started, and I was following Miss Maitland into the hall, Ferguson behind me, when she turned in the doorway and spoke. She had orders that the servants must know nothing; she was to tell them that the family would stay in town for a few days, and for me to be careful what I said before them. Then, before I could answer, she glanced at Ferguson and said good-by, her eyes just touching him for a moment and passing, cold and weary, back to me. She'd wish me good-night, she was going to her room and not coming down again—no, thanks, she'd take no dinner, she was very tired. She didn't need to say that. If I ever saw a person dead beat and at the end of her string she was it.
Ferguson stood looking after her. I think for the moment he forgot me, or maybe he wasn't conscious of what his face showed. Some way or other I didn't like to look at him; it was as if I was spying on something I had no right to see. So I turned away and dropped into one of the balcony chairs, sunk down against the back and feeling limp as a rag.