Mrs. Powell was an invalid, and had been for years. But her bright eyes and strong, fine face told of an indomitable will and a capable personality.
Again Miss Webb told her story. She liked none of the Powells, and though she concealed this, yet there was no magnetism in her manner,—no sympathy in her voice.
She told a straightforward tale, precisely as she had told it to Elsie. She did not soften the facts, she held out no hope or encouragement; she talked with a peculiar effect of giving statistics, as a conscientious reporter might do.
At the close of the recital, Mrs. Powell promptly went to pieces. She always did this on exciting occasions.
“Try not to, mother,” was Elsie’s softly spoken advice, and then she turned to Miss Webb.
“You cannot deceive me,” she said, quietly, but with flashing eyes; “I do not believe a word of your story! You have hidden Kimball somewhere so that he cannot marry me today! You are desperately opposed to our marriage, and you have resorted to desperate means to prevent it! Your invention of the locked room business is too silly for words, and you must think me an utter idiot if you think I would swallow such nonsense. You have made no secret of your opposition to me, you have tried every way possible to break off the match, and, failing, you have taken matters into your own hands and you have done this despicable thing! You have hidden or confined your brother,—what have you done with him?”
CHAPTER III
ELSIE SUSPECTS
“After such an exhibition of foolishness, one could scarcely wonder that I can’t look upon you as a desirable mate for my talented brother,—but I am willing to make allowances for your display of temper, as I can readily understand how embarrassed you must be at the awkwardness of having no wedding—”
Henrietta Webb paused as she saw the look that came over Elsie’s face.
“Don’t you propose to let him out in time to get married?” the girl cried. “Oh, Henrietta, how can you be so cruel? I know you’ve done this thing,—Kimball couldn’t disappear! Nor would he go away of his own accord. But you’ve had something up your sleeve for a long time,—I saw that you had,—only I never dreamed it was anything so heartless, so awful as to stop the wedding at the last minute! Why, it’s after twelve,—and the people will begin to go to the church soon after three. Please, Henrietta, own up now! Give him up! You know you can’t prevent the wedding,—you can only postpone it; and think of the trouble you’ll make!”