"Ah! it is you," was all she said.
"Yes, it is I; and I have brought back your mistress, Mrs. Bowers, as I said I would, though you did have the impudence to insinuate that I had made way with her," he answered, in a tone of rough pleasantry.
"You are none too good to have done it," she answered, with a certain cool and familiar impertinence.
"Confound your impudence—lead the way to her room," he said, carelessly. "She is ill and needs attention."
Mrs. Bowers went up the stairway and opened the door into a large, airy room, exquisitely furnished and draped with hangings of white lace over rose-colored silk. Costly pictures and statuettes adorned the walls, and all the appointments were of elegant design, and evidently selected regardless of expense.
Mrs. Bowers held back the sweeping lace canopy of the low French bed, and the man laid his fair burden down upon it, after removing the dark cloak.
"What ails her?" asked the woman, starting as a low moan broke from the lips of the only half-conscious girl.
"I told you she was ill," he said, curtly. "She has been in a swoon. Get restoratives."
Mrs. Bowers obeyed him, and was soon bathing the pale face and limp, nerveless hands, with refreshing perfume.
Directly Queenie started up, passed her hand across her brow and looked about her. An expression of loathing swept across her face.