“Your prayer will surely be answered. I am certain of that. A great wrong has been committed by some one, and the innocent must not suffer to shield the guilty.”
Mrs. Hillmer bowed her head and did not utter a word for some minutes. She appeared to be reasoning out some plan of action in a dazed fashion. When decision came she said in low tones:
“You must leave me now, Mr. Bruce. I must have time. When I am ready I shall send for you.”
He knew instinctively that it was hopeless to plead with her. Frivolous, volatile women of her stamp often betray unusual strength of character in a supreme crisis.
“You are adopting an unwise course,” he said sadly.
“Maybe. But I must be alone. I am not deceiving you. When I have determined something which is not now clear to me, I will send for you. It may be that I shall speak. It may be that I shall be silent. In either case I only can judge—and suffer.”
“Tell me one thing at least, Mrs. Hillmer, before we part. Did you know of Lady Dyke’s death before to-day?”
She came to him and looked him straight in the face, and said: “I did not. On my soul, I did not.”
Then he passed into the hall; and even the shock of this painful interview did not prevent him from noting the flitting of a shadow past a distant doorway, as some one hurried into the interior of a room.
In their excitement they forgot that their voices might attract attention, and ladies’ maids are proverbially inquisitive.