"I cannot. I suppose she knew Granny Jenks at Stonecliff; but I am sure she hated sweet Liane, because she carried off the beauty prize over her head."
Carlos Cisneros gleaned all he could from Sophie, but he gave her no further information about himself, content with making a very good impression, indeed, on Sophie's rather susceptible heart.
Meanwhile, upstairs, granny, having locked the door with a stifled oath, dropped down on the rug, and lay for long hours in a drunken stupor, while the dreary night wore on.
Suddenly, as the bells hoarsely clanged four in the morning, granny started broad awake, shivering with cold in the fireless room, and sat up and looked about her, whimpering like a startled child:
"Liane! Liane!"
A sudden comprehension seemed to dawn upon her, and, getting up heavily, she stalked into the inner room.
The dim lamp was burning low, casting eerie shadows about the room, and she walked over to the bed, where she had thrown something the evening before.
The ghastly thing lay there still, just as she had placed it with the coverlid drawn up to the chin, the silent lips fallen apart, the eyes a little open and staring dully, as granny placed her skinny claw over the heart, feeling for a pulsation.
There was none. She had done her work well. Her victim—the victim of eighteen years of most barbarous cruelty—lay pale and motionless before her, the mute lips uttering no reproach for her crime.