Miss Rainforth fell back in her chair, muttering, rather to herself than to Ida:
“I had heard so. I had been warned. But I did not believe it.”
Then she turned to Ida.
“Talk plainly,” she said. “What is it you want to say? What is it you want of me?”
Ida stood up, deliberately replaced the revolvers in her pocket, and as calmly sat down again.
She felt that she had already won her victory; if she managed the rest of the interview with skill that the reckless, courageous and masterful young woman was already cowed.
In the meantime, Miss Rainforth, settling back in her chair, was regarding her visitor with apprehensive intentness.
“Mr. Carter,” said Ida, “has neither wish nor disposition to do anything to your injury. You are of no consequence to him, as important as you doubtless regard yourself, except as you bear a relation to the mysterious disappearance of Mr. Ellison, and have knowledge of events leading up to that disappearance.”
“I am sure,” replied Miss Rainforth, with a sneer, “I’m obliged to the consideration of Mr. Carter.”
Ida gave no heed to the sneer, but went on: