CHAPTER XI.
A BREAKING HEART.
Madame Barto did not expect any customers the next morning; it was so still, so dark and lowering after the night’s storm, but at ten o’clock the bell clanged loudly and she admitted a beautiful, richly dressed woman who said excitedly:
“No, I do not wish my fortune told, but I will pay you well for any information about a young girl who has been living with you—Jessie Lyndon.”
“She ran away from me last night, the little vixen, and I did not discover it till this morning,” the fortune teller answered sullenly.
“Do not speak unkindly of the dead. Jessie Lyndon was found dead in the snow by one of my servants last night, and she is at my house awaiting burial,” was the startling reply.
“Good heavens! Poor little thing!” ejaculated Madame Barto, with a touch of sympathy.
“I have come,” continued the lady, with a quivering lip, “to get all the information possible about this young girl’s antecedents.”
“’Tis little I can give you, ma’am, in truth. She only stayed with me a day or so, but I can give you the address of Mrs. Ryan, the woman who brought her to me, and ’tis likely she can tell you all you want to know, though I don’t think she has any folks rich enough to bury her, poor thing, and, of course, she has no claim on me,” added Madame Barto apprehensively.
The caller gave her a haughty glance.
“I am not looking for any one to pay Jessie Lyndon’s burial expenses, my good woman,” she said freezingly; “Mrs. Ryan’s address, please, and take this for your trouble,” pressing a gold piece into the ready palm, and sweeping out to her waiting car.