But the most bewildering, and yet most clarifying, detail of all was one she observed on the twelfth day since Matilda's going, the twenty-fifth of her own official absence.
On that afternoon she was standing on a chair entertaining herself by gazing through one of her shutters, when she saw Jack crossing Washington Square. He was walking very soberly, and about the left sleeve of a quiet gray summer suit was a band of crape.
Mrs. De Peyster stepped down from her chair. The mystery was lifting. Somebody was dead! But who? Who?
Early the next morning, while the inmates of the house were occupied in the serving or the eating of breakfast, Mrs. De Peyster was startled by a soft knocking at her door. But instantly she was reassured by the tremulous accents without.
"It's me, ma'am,—Matilda. Let me in—quick!"
The next instant the door opened and Matilda half staggered, half fell, into the room. But such a Matilda! Shivering all over, eyes wildly staring.
"What is it?" cried Mrs. De Peyster, seizing her housekeeper's arm.
"Oh, ma—ma—ma'am," chattered Matilda. "It's—it's awful!"
"But what is it?" demanded Mrs. De Peyster, beginning to tremble with an unknown terror.
"Oh, it's—it's awful! I couldn't get you word before—for I didn't dare write, and my sister wasn't well enough for me to leave her till last night."