“Oh, yes; there is,” he said.
“How? Who from?” she said quickly.
“Bridget Rousselin.”
“Bridget Rousselin?” she cried.
“Certainly. We’ve got to question her.”
“Question that woman?”
“Yes, that woman.”
“Then—then—she’s—she’s alive!”
“Well, yes; she is.”
He rose again, pivoted on his heels once or twice in a sketchy little dance that was half cancan, half jig, and said: