“The very description of my divorced husband—the man that stole Darling from me, and broke my heart. And the girl, was she like him, tell me!”
Frank Laurier answered excitedly:
“She was the living picture of the dead Jessie Lyndon—the girl you buried as your daughter.”
“Nonsense, Frank——” began Cora rebukingly, but at that moment a maid appeared at the door, beckoning her away, and saying:
“There’s a young lady downstairs insisting on seeing Mrs. Dalrymple, and I told her I would call you.”
“I will come,” Cora answered quickly, then, looking back at Frank, “Please do not tell Aunt Verna any more startling stories while I am gone.”
She vanished, and Frank looked back at the invalid in whom a startling improvement had certainly taken place.
Motioning to the maid for some cordial that stood on the table, she swallowed it eagerly, then said:
“Suzanne, you may go into the dressing room within call if I need you.”
The maid retired, and she turned a piteous gaze on Frank Laurier’s sympathetic face.