Mrs. Bray shook her head:
“Afraid I can't do much with her.”
“Why?” an anxious expression coming into Mrs. Dinneford's face.
“These people suspect everybody; there is no honor nor truth in them, and they judge every one by themselves. She half accused me of getting a larger amount of money from you, and putting her off with the paltry sum of thirty dollars.”
Mrs. Bray looked exceedingly hurt and annoyed.
“Threatened,” she went on, “to go to you herself—didn't want any go-betweens nor brokers. I expected to hear you say that she'd been at your house this morning.”
“Good Gracious! no!” Mrs. Dinneford's face was almost distorted with alarm.
“It's the way with all these people,” coolly remarked Mrs. Bray. “You're never safe with them.”
“Did you hint at her leaving the city?—going to New Orleans, for instance?”
“Oh dear, no! She isn't to be managed in that way—is deeper and more set than I thought. The fact is, Mrs. Dinneford”—and Mrs. Bray lowered her voice and looked shocked and mysterious—“I'm beginning to suspect her as being connected with a gang.”