“Are you certain?” inquired Florence, a slight tremor running along her nerves as she looked up at the house.
“Dead sure,” replied the hackman, in a confident voice. “I know the house by its shut-up look. I’ve passed here many a time, and have never seen a window open yet, or the sign of a human about the house.”
“Come,” said Florence to the Irish girl, and the two stepped from the carriage, and, crossing the pavement, ascended the steps. The bell was rung, and, after waiting for a few moments, the door opened, and a slightly-formed girl, about fifteen years of age, with a singularly interesting face, inquired their errand.
“Does a Mrs. Jeckyl live here?” asked Florence.
“No, ma’am,” replied the girl.
“Mrs. Hawks?” said the companion of Florence.
The girl shook her head.
“We were told,” said Florence, “that a woman bearing one of these names came to your house about two weeks ago. She was a tall Englishwoman, dressed in black.”
“Won’t you come in and see my mother?” And the girl moved back a pace or two from the door.
According to the invitation, Florence stepped over the threshold and entered the house, following the girl, who conducted her into the back-parlor, which was feebly lighted by the rays that came in through a small opening in the shutters.