THEY STARED AT ME IN SILENCE AS I DRAGGED THESE OUT AND LAID THEM ON THE FLOOR.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE REST OF THE FIND
It was a woman’s clothing, beyond a doubt, all thrown in anyhow,—as if the person who had placed it there had been in a desperate hurry. An entire outfit was there, shoes, stockings, body linen, corsets, and all,—even to hat, gloves, and hairpins;—these latter were mixed up with the rest of the garments in strange confusion. It seemed plain that whoever had worn those clothes had been stripped to the skin.
Lessingham and Sydney stared at me in silence as I dragged them out and laid them on the floor. The dress was at the bottom,—it was an alpaca, of a pretty shade in blue, bedecked with lace and ribbons, as is the fashion of the hour, and lined with sea-green silk. It had perhaps been a ‘charming confection’ once—and that a very recent one!—but now it was all soiled and creased and torn and tumbled. The two spectators made a simultaneous pounce at it as I brought it to the light.
‘My God!’ cried Sydney, ‘it’s Marjorie’s!—she was wearing it when I saw her last!’
‘It’s Marjorie’s!’ gasped Lessingham,—he was clutching at the ruined costume, staring at it like a man who has just received sentence of death. ‘She wore it when she was with me yesterday,—I told her how it suited her, and how pretty it was!’
There was silence,—it was an eloquent find; it spoke for itself. The two men gazed at the heap of feminine glories,—it might have been the most wonderful sight they ever had seen. Lessingham was the first to speak,—his face had all at once grown grey and haggard.
‘What has happened to her?’
I replied to his question with another.
‘Are you sure this is Miss Lindon’s dress?’