“Oh, then she'll be welcome, of course,” Aggie declared, and Garson nodded in acquiescence. “Tell her to come in and wait, Fannie. Miss Turner will be here right away.” She turned to Garson as the maid left the room. “Mary sure is an easy boob,” she remarked, cheerfully. “Bless her soft heart!”
A curiously gentle smile of appreciation softened the immobility of the forger's face as he again nodded assent.
“We might just as well pipe off the skirt before Mary gets here,” Aggie suggested, with eagerness.
A minute later, a girl perhaps twenty years of age stepped just within the doorway, and stood there with eyes downcast, after one swift, furtive glance about her. Her whole appearance was that of dejection. Her soiled black gown, the cringing posture, the pallor of her face, proclaimed the abject misery of her state.
Aggie, who was not exuberant in her sympathies for any one other than herself, addressed the newcomer with a patronizing inflection, modulated in her best manner.
“Won't you come in, please?” she requested.
The shrinking girl shot another veiled look in the direction of the speaker.
“Are you Miss Turner?” she asked, in a voice broken by nervous dismay.
“Really, I am very sorry,” Aggie replied, primly; “but I am only her cousin, Miss Agnes Lynch. But Miss Turner is likely to be back any minute now.”
“Can I wait?” came the timid question.