By the time I had digested this amazing fact the girls, to whom fear seemed to lend astonishing speed, had got the room cleaned.
“A patient is coming,” I explained to them. “That is all now.” They were glad to be dismissed and hurried away.
I did not remain alone in that room. Strolling down the corridor, the tiny sequin still in my hand, it occurred to me that it would be a fine thing to be able to tell Lance O’Leary, when I gave him the sequin, whether or not Corole had worn her gold gown since the night of her dinner party. Huldah would know, and somehow in the face of this last development, I had no scruples as to inquiring of Huldah concerning the affairs of her mistress.
It was a matter of only a few moments until I was on my way.
The path through the orchard squdged wetly under my feet; the trees dripped steadily on my starched, white cap, and the mist lay so heavy and close that I could not see more than ten or fifteen feet ahead of me. The shrubs massed around the trees were hazy, shadowy outlines, and the raw air fairly hurt my throat.
I walked on slowly through the wet alfalfa field, passed the clump of pines that made a black blot amidst the fog, and through the gate. The porch of the Letheny cottage still looked dreary and Huldah had not swept it that day.
Corole came to the door.
“Oh,” she said unenthusiastically. “Oh, hello, Sarah. Come in. I was boring myself over a book.” She threw my cape on a chair and I followed her into the study.
“You decided not to go to New Orleans, then, with the—that is, for the funeral?”
“There was no need to.” Her face darkened. “He has relatives there who—never cared for me.”