“At last Maggie has come,” she said, half angrily, and hurried down to open the door herself in her impatience; but Maggie had not come.
Mrs. Neville herself stood on the threshold, looking flushed and angry.
“I declare, madam,” this lady began, “I shall never interest myself again in a shop girl. I took your pretty Maggie home with me to-day, and treated her like a lady, and here I find the silk I gave her to bring to you hidden behind my vestibule door. You know that I am in a great hurry for my dress, so I thought I would ride down and give you the silk, as I have other business in this direction. I do not quite like your favorite, Maggie. She was laboring under intense excitement to-day, and I confess her conduct displeased me. She refused to be driven back here in my car, and I think she went to meet some lover. I hope——”
But Mrs. Neville never finished her sentence, for madam was wringing her hands, and weeping violently.
“It cuts me to the heart to believe that Maggie is a thief,” she was sobbing, and Mrs. Neville smiled behind her embroidered handkerchief at the success of her cruel plans, while she affected to sympathize with the too trusting mistress of the unworthy girl.
During the short drive from the bank to the residence of Clara Neville, Iris preserved an unbroken silence. The shock of the revelation to which she had been an unwilling listener seemed to have deprived her of thought or action.
Arriving at her home, Mrs. Neville requested Iris to follow her to a room on the second floor—her own boudoir—a pretty little apartment furnished in the gay, bright colors the widow loved.
“You had better be seated, girl, for I have a few words to say to you, and it makes me nervous to see you standing.”
“If you have any message for madam,” replied Iris, “I beg you will tell me at once, Mrs. Neville, as I am anxious to return with the money I have in charge for her. I am afraid she will be anxious if I am delayed a moment longer than is necessary.”