"And you've taken matters into your own hands.—Did your father send you here—to me?"
"Why, no!"
The other smiled slyly, the tip of her tongue again visible, her eyebrows high in interrogation. "Of course," she said; "you wouldn't tell me if he had. He would have warned you against that admission."
"It's Mr. Webster about whom I am most concerned," Lucille reminded, sharpness in her vibrant young voice. "My father's being annoyed is merely incidental."
"Oh, of course! Of course," Mrs. Brace grinned, with broad sarcasm.
Lucille started. The meaning of that could not be misunderstood; she charged that the money was offered at Arthur Sloane's instigation and that the concern for Berne Webster was merely pretence.
Mrs. Brace saw her anger, and placated it:
"Don't mind me, Miss Sloane. A woman who's had to endure what I have—well, she doesn't always think clearly."
"Perhaps not," Lucille assented; but she was aware of a sudden longing to be done with the degrading work. "Now that we understand each other, Mrs. Brace, what do you say?"