“Mrs. Bushey,” I hazarded, and then remembered Mrs. Bushey was off somewhere imparting physical culture.
“Is Mrs. Bushey very tall and thin with black hair and a velvet dress, and a hat as big as a tea tray?”
“No, she’s short and stout and—”
“Evie,” interrupted Mrs. Ferguson, sounding a deep note, “that woman wasn’t Mrs. Bushey. Nobody who looked like that ever leased an eighteen-foot house and rented out floors.”
I had a sudden surge of memory—
“It must have been Miss Harris.”
Betty loosed my hand and sank upon the sofa, that is, she subsided carefully upon the sofa, as erect as a statue from the waist up. She threw back her furs with a disregard for the orchid that made me wince.
“Who’s Miss Harris?” she said sternly.
I told her all I knew.
“That’s just what she looked like—the stage. Are there any more of them here?”