It was the girl of the art shop! The blonde, fairy-like creature who had regarded her with such evident repulsion and fear! Betty stood rigid with amazement and then the truth came to her in a flash of understanding.
The purchase of the mirror was a mere subterfuge to get her to the shop at a certain hour, where this other woman had doubtless been directed to note her appearance for future recognition. She remembered how the stranger's eyes had lingered on her birthmark, which she evidently described to the man who had attempted to take her place on the previous day. Every action, no matter how trivial, which was suggested by Mrs. Atterbury must be a part of some deep-laid, far-reaching plan.
The same look of fear was intensified now in the eyes fastened upon her and a tiny gloved hand was extended as if to ward off a blow.
"I couldn't come yesterday, for I was really ill." The stranger spoke in a low, fluttering voice. "I sent him, I played fair, why would you not deal with him? Here is what you have come for; take it, and let me go!"
She drew from her breast a long, sealed, blank envelope and held it out, but Betty's fingers had not closed upon it before the other's touch was withdrawn as though contaminated. She glided quickly to the door, but paused upon its threshold and turned, her golden head erect.
"Remember!" she cried, her flute-like tones suddenly shrill. "Tell those who sent you that I shall have nothing more to do with this affair. If a further attempt is made to drag me into it I shall kill myself. I will accept no more commands, expose myself to no future danger. I am almost mad now, but I shall have enough sanity left to take myself beyond your reach. I have kept my wretched compact; see to it that you keep yours."
The doorway was empty, but a faint elusive perfume lingered in the air, and upon the floor at Betty's feet lay a crushed and trampled orchid, its livid petals outspread like the wings of some wounded tropic bird.
Betty stood staring down at it for a moment, then abruptly thrusting the envelope into her muff, she turned and made her way to the street.
CHAPTER IX.
Crossroads.