"And such a dreadful thing!" continued the girl. "You can bear those things so much better when one dies of a fever, or of something in one's bed. It is so much more natural like. But to be—murdered!"
The girl interrupted herself with a little shiver, but Carlita neither shrank from the word nor moved. She stood stonily, gazing with those burning eyes into the street.
"It was very dreadful!" she said, dully.
"And do they know who did it?" continued the girl.
"No."
"But there must be some way of finding out. I have heard such a lot of those people, Mexicans, you know—worse than brigands. They don't want to find out who did it; but a good smart Yankee detective would ferret it all out quickly enough."
For the first time Carlita started.
"A detective!" she repeated.
"Yes'm. A good detective could go down there and get at the bottom of facts in no time."