Ashcroft fixed his eyes upon her searchingly.
“Her face looks strangely familiar,” he said to himself. “Where can I have seen her?”
Mrs. Crawford, like all persons who have a secret to conceal, was distrustful of strangers. She took an instant dislike to Reuben Ashcroft, and her greeting was exceedingly cold.
“I have invited Mr. Ashcroft to make me a visit of two or three days, my dear,” said her husband. “He is a cousin to Carl’s mother.”
Mrs. Crawford made no response, but kept her eyes fixed upon the carpet. She could not have shown more plainly that the invitation was not approved by her.
“Madam does not want me here,” thought Ashcroft, as he fixed his gaze once more upon his friend’s wife. Again the face looked familiar, but he could not place it.
“Have I not seen you before, Mrs. Crawford?” he asked, abruptly.
“I don’t remember you,” she answered, slowly. “Probably I resemble some one you have met.”
“Perhaps so,” answered Ashcroft, but he could not get rid of the conviction that somewhere and some time in the past he had met Mrs. Crawford, and under circumstances that had fixed her countenance in his memory.
After supper Dr. Crawford said: “My dear, I have told our guest that I had, as a prudential measure, made my will. I wish you would get it, and let me read it to him.”