"Her ladyship is not well. I'm afraid your pretty pictures disagreed with her, Mr. Parmalee."
"Hey?" said the artist, with a sharp, suspicious stare.
"She was perfectly well until you showed them to her. She has been ill ever since. One must draw one's own inference."
Mr. Parmalee busied himself some five minutes in profound silence.
Then—
"Where is she to-day? Ain't she about?"
"No. I told you she was ill. She complained of headache after you left yesterday, and went up to her own room. I have not seen her since."
Mr. Parmalee began to whistle a negro melody, and still went industriously on with his work.
"I don't think nothing of that," he remarked, after a prolonged pause. "Fine ladies all have headaches. Knowed heaps of 'em to home—all had it. You have yourself sometimes, I guess."
"No," said Sybilla; "I'm not a fine lady. I have no time to sham headaches, and I have no secrets to let loose. I am only a fine lady's companion, and all the world is free to know my history."
And then Miss Silver looked at Mr. Parmalee, and Mr. Parmalee looked at Miss Silver, with the air of two accomplished duelists waiting for the word.