Then it was Cecilia Reynolds’ turn.
“You are a leader,” the fortune teller told Cissy, noting that she carried a small purse, “but beware of a very light and pretty girl (Dorothy, of course). She has a way of making people think she is fond of them, but this is all for her own ends. I see——” and she paused significantly, “a child—a little dark girl. She cries! What is the matter with her? What has she done?”
Zada! Those who listened back of the curtains were dumbfounded.
“She has done something she regrets very much, and she wants to tell this light girl. Her home is far away, and she will soon return to it. Who told her to do that thing?”
The woman gave this chance to take effect, and, while doing so, took a fresh stick of gum. Cecilia looked on the glass. The woman came back to it, and almost kissed it, as she pretended to look deeper into its depths.
“Yes, and there is trouble,” she rumbled, “much trouble. But it isn’t well to foresee trouble,” and she sighed as if that “trouble” would break her own heart.
Cecilia was very restless. It would get late in spite of all calculations.
It was now Jean Faval’s turn. She walked in as if used to such scenes, had her glove off in advance, and handed out her hand as mechanically as if offering it to a manicurist.
The woman looked at her very sharply, and it was some moments before she spoke.
“The lines are crossed,” she said finally, “and so is your life to be. You have a great will, but you do not allow it to have its proper control. Your ambition is—money, and what about a letter? Who wrote the torn letter?”