“Didn't you find out who the women were—the two bad women the little girl told me about? If we had their names, the police could find them. The little girl's mother must know who they are.”
“We have the name of one of them,” said Mr. Dinneford. “She is called Pinky Swett, and it can't be long before the police are on her track. She is said to be a desperate character. Nothing more can be done now; we must wait until the police work up the affair. I will call at the mayor's office in the morning and find out what has been done.”
Mrs. Dinneford heard no more. The bell rang, and her husband and daughter left the parlor and went up stairs. The moment they were beyond observation she glided noiselessly through the hall, and reached her chamber without being noticed. Soon afterward she came down dressed for visiting, and went out hastily, her veil closely drawn. Her manner was hurried. Descending the steps, she stood for a single moment, as if hesitating which way to go, and then moved off rapidly. Soon she had passed out of the fashionable neighborhood in which she lived. After this she walked more slowly, and with the air of one whose mind was in doubt or hesitation. Once she stopped, and turning about, slowly retraced her steps for the distance of a square. Then she wheeled around, as if from some new and strong resolve, and went on again. At last she paused before a respectable-looking house of moderate size in a neighborhood remote from the busier and more thronged parts of the city. The shutters were all bowed down to the parlor, and the house had a quiet, unobtrusive look. Mrs. Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up and down the street, and then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the bell.
“Is Mrs. Hoyt in?” she asked of a stupid-looking girl who came to the door.
“Yes, ma'am,” was answered.
“Tell her a lady wants to see her;” and she passed into the plainly-furnished parlor. There were no pictures on the walls nor ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any evidence of taste—nothing home-like—in the shadowed room, the atmosphere of which was close and heavy. She waited here for a few moments, when there was a rustle of garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the stairs. A small, dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered the parlor.
“Mrs. Bray—no, Mrs. Hoyt.”
“Mrs. Dinneford;” and the two women stood face to face for a few moments, each regarding the other keenly.
“Mrs. Hoyt—don't forget,” said the former, with a warning emphasis in her voice. “Mrs. Bray is dead.”
In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were indeed so.