And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner.
“It's a wretched business in every way,” she added, “and I'm sorry that I ever had anything to do with it. It's something dreadful, as I told you at the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a way. Poor little soul! I shall never feel right about it.”
“That's neither here nor there;” and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently. “The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman.”
“Yes, that's it—and as I said just now, I would rather have you deal with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can.”
“It's no use to talk, Mrs. Bray. I will not see the woman.”
“Very well; you must be your own judge in the case.”
“Can't you bind her up to something, or get her out of the city? I'd pay almost anything to have her a thousand miles away. See if you can't induce her to go to New Orleans. I'll pay her passage, and give her a hundred dollars besides, if she'll go.”
Mrs. Bray smiled a faint, sinister smile:
“If you could get her off there, it would be the end of her. She'd never stand the fever.”
“Then get her off, cost what it may,” said Mrs. Dinneford.