Then there burst upon her startled ears a sharp cry of anger. She looked quickly at Madame’s face. It was black as the western sky before a storm.
“You do not even listen!” She was fairly choking with anger as she fixed her burning eyes on Florence. “You did not come here to seek spiritual advice. You came here as a spy. A spy!” Her breath failed her. But in the corner the white-hot torch sputtered, and to Florence’s terrified vision, written on the wall in letters of flame there appeared the word, SPY!
“He could burn those words upon one’s breast,” she thought. “With that torch he could burn out one’s heart!” She gripped at her breast to still the hard beating of her heart.
“Why do you spy upon us?” Madame was speaking again. “Is it because we are frauds? Because we pretend to know that which we do not know? What is that to you?
“Is it because we take money from those who can well afford to give? Look you! We are poor. We have no money. But we must live, and live we will! Why not?” She laughed a hoarse laugh. “Why not? And what is it to you if we do live well at the expense of those who are weak and foolish? You and your paper! Bah!” She arose with a threatening gesture. As she took two steps forward her hands became claws, her teeth the fangs of a wild thing.
Florence sprang back in sudden terror.
But the woman before her tottered on her feet. Her face turned a sickish purple.
“No! No!” She gurgled in her throat. “It is not for me! Come, Beppo!”
The man at the bench turned half about. At the same time his torch glowed with a more terrifying flame.
“Fire! Fire!” the Professor mumbled.