Miss Adair perceived that I was not so ready with my tongue as I might have been. There was a sharp note of anxiety in her voice.
“There’s nothing wrong with Bessie, is there?”
I stammered, like an ass, “I—I’m afraid there is.”
“She’s not—dead?”
“Dead! Good gracious, no! Nothing of the kind.”
“Then what has happened to her? Tell me! Quick! Don’t you see that I’m on tenterhooks?”
“First of all let me be certain of my ground. I take it that that is Miss Moore.”
I handed her the, by this time, historical photograph.
“Of course it is. What do you mean by asking? Where is she? Who are you? What have you done to her? Don’t stand there as if you were afraid to open your mouth!”
“The truth is, Miss Adair, that I am rather at a loss for words with which to express myself. But, if you will bear with me, I will endeavour to make myself as plain as I can; it is rather a difficult task which I have to perform.”