Her purpose was clear to her; nothing should hinder its achievement. She must destroy the mirror. There were sciences that were better killed at the outset. She did not enter deeply into those phases of the question, but she had the clear determination to prevent further mischief, further follies on the part of Vane, further chances of her father's collapse.
The mirror must be destroyed. That was plain and simple.
It took a tremendous ringing and knocking to bring Nevins to the door of Vane's house.
"I am Miss Vanlief," she said, "I want to see my father's mirror."
"Certainly, miss, certainly." He tottered before her, chuckling and chattering to himself. He was in the condition now when nothing surprised him; any rascal could have led him with a word or a hint; he was immeasurably gay at everything in the world. He reeled to the dressing-room with an elaborate air of courtesy.
"At your service, miss, there you are, miss. You walk straight on, and there you are, miss. There's the mirror, miss, plain as pudding."
She strode past him, drawing her skirt away from the horrible taint of his breath. She knew she would find the mirror at once, curtained and solitary sentinel before the doorway. She would simply break it with her parasol, stab it, viciously, from behind.
But, once past the portal, she gave a little cry.
All the mirrors were jumbled together, all looked alike, and all faced her, mysterious, glaringly.
"Nevins," she called out, "which—which is the one?"