"They say you've only got to look at her——"
A dull flush spread over Miss Keating's face. She was breathing hard. Her mouth opened to speak; a thick sigh came through it, but no words.
"I've looked," said the old lady, "and I can't see anything about her different from other people. She dresses so quietly; but I'm told they often do. They're very careful that we shouldn't know them."
"They? Oh, you don't mean that Mrs. Tailleur—is——"
"I'm only going by what I'm told. Mind you, I get it all from Mrs. Hankin."
Miss Keating, who had been leaning forward, sat suddenly bolt upright. Her whole body was shaking now. Her voice was low but violent.
"Oh—oh—I knew it—I knew. I always felt there was something about her."
"I'm sure, my dear, you didn't know."
"I didn't. I didn't think it was that; I only thought she wasn't nice. I thought she was fast, or she'd been divorced, or something—something terrible of that sort."
She still sat bolt upright, gazing open-eyed, open-mouthed at the terror. She was filled with a fierce excitement, a sort of exultation. Then doubt came to her.