There was a change in the lady's face, marked enough, yet not so as to strike any but a nice observer. The bland smile faded from her lips, the lines about her mouth took a harder set, the eyes were more watchfully on the alert.
"Yes," she said quietly, not shewing her surprise. "I have a sister."
"Have you heard from her lately?"
"No. Not lately." The eyes were keenly attentive now, the words a little dry. She waited for what was to come next. As Mr. Digby paused, she added, "Do you know her?"
"I have known her."
"In Medwayville? I did not know you had ever travelled in the western part of the state."
"I have never been there. I knew Mrs. Carpenter here, in New York."
"In New York!" repeated Mrs. Busby. "She did not tell me— When did you know her in New York? I was not aware she had ever been here."
"She was here the early part of this summer. But she was very ill, and failing constantly; and in July—did you know nothing of it?—she left us all, Mrs. Busby."
"My sister? Did she die here? Do you mean that?"