"Ah, what a relief," breathed Constance, reading for the third time Bathurst's reassuring note. "I begin to feel like myself once more. Now I am ready for you, Mr. private detective Belknap."
And, truly, Constance was herself once more. Poor Mrs. Aliston, sitting aloof, and almost abandoned during the days of her niece's perturbation of mind, was the first to receive the benefit of the returning sunshine. Constance, for reasons which any woman can guess, had kept her anxiety, concerning Doctor Heath, a profound secret from this good lady; and she, watching the signs of the times, made no comments, but speculated profoundly—and, wide of the mark.
"You should have gone with me to drive, yesterday, Con.," said Mrs. Aliston to Constance, who, sitting in her aunt's room, half an hour after the departure of her small messenger, was endeavoring to atone for her neglect of the past few days by chatting cheerily upon every subject but the one which was of deepest interest to herself.
"You should have been with me and seen Sybil Lamotte."
"Sybil! Did you call there?"
"Oh, no. I can't get on with Mrs. Lamotte well enough to brave such a call alone; she is too stately and non-committal for me."
"You don't understand her, auntie; but Sybil, did you speak with her?"
"Yes, we met just over the bridge, and Sybil stopped the carriage to ask after you; I think she is anxious to see you."
"Poor Sybil," said Constance, contritely, "I have neglected her of late; but we will drive there to-morrow; to-day I don't just feel like going out. Does Sybil look well, auntie?"
Mrs. Aliston leaned forward and lifted a plump forefinger to give emphasis to her words.