"She said she'd know you among a thousand, that's all. And see here, Elaine. Don't tell me anything you don't want to, just because of that."
Elaine put her hands to her head, with a gesture which wrung Peggy's heart. "But I do want to tell. I've got to tell somebody. Sometimes--" her voice rose in a little cry--"Sometimes I've thought I'd go crazy, keeping it to myself."
Peggy pulled up a chair and sat down. She was used to confidences. People of the stamp of Peggy Raymond must expect to be receptacles for the various woes of all sorts and conditions of people. But she realized that what Elaine had to tell was something out of the ordinary, and lost a fraction of her usual bright color.
"I knew those women," Elaine explained, twisting her interlaced fingers. "But they didn't know me. They thought I was my sister."
"I didn't know you had a sister!" Surprise was responsible for Peggy's exclamation.
"I'm several years younger than Grace, but there's a strong resemblance. It was her picture you found that day, Peggy."
"And she died. How dreadful it must have been--" Peggy's sympathetic voice ceased suddenly, as Elaine's look of agitation told her that she had guessed wrong. "She's not dead," Elaine said breathlessly. "She's living, and what's more, she's living here, Peggy."
"Here?"
"On Friendly Terrace."
Peggy had been prepared for unusual disclosures, but this was more than she had bargained for. It was a good half minute before she could answer except by an incredulous stare.