It was as yet a mystery as to whether fear, intrigue or accident had brought the lovely girl into the opened arms of her still beautiful mother.
“All I know,” said Justine, in a conference arranged for this purpose by her now indifferent fellow-conspirator, “all I could find out was, that this green-eyed cripple, this little sycophant Irelandaise, who now is my tyrant, brought the tall girl late one evening to the ‘Circassia.’”
“It was a strange visit,” murmured Justine, “for she brought no luggage, and that girl never left my mistress’ presence for a moment, till she went away with the two Conyers.
“I am certain that Madame had never seen this girl in the seven years of my employ. There were no pictures, no relics of childhood—nothing. And I was always on the lookout for the mystery of Madame’s life—”
Justine demurely dropped her eyes.
“Bah!” she cried; “a woman with blood as cold as a fish! No life, no love; she cares for nothing but money.
“Among all of them, not a lover! I thought she was fond of the dead Mr. Hathorn once, but he was soon on a level with the others.”
Justine’s voice was duly scornful.
“And then her tears and frequent fits of sorrow! That was the record the whole of seven years.
“The last thing I saw of her—a stolen glance—she had this girl’s picture in her hand, and was weeping over it.