"A relation of this old Cap'n Ira?"
"Of Mrs. Ball."
"Huh! Say, what's you name?"
"My name is Bostwick," was the composed reply. "You did not mention yours, did you?"
"Bostwick?"
"They call me Ida May Bostwick," said Sheila, demurely smiling, and even then without a suspicion of the vortex into which she was being drawn.
"Ida May Bostwick!"
The visitor rose out of her seat as though a spring had been released under her. Her eyes flattened, distended, and sparked like micaceous rock in the dark. Her hands clenched till the pointed, highly polished nails bit into the palms.
"What do you say? You are Ida May Bostwick?"
At that moment Sheila Macklin saw the light. It smote upon her brain like a shaft from a great searchlight; a penetrating, cleaving beam that might have laid bare her very soul before the accusing stranger. She staggered, retreating, shrinking, but only for a moment.