Kate rose, made another pretense at setting things right in the room, and moved toward the door. A relief, a lowering of tension, came over Eleanor. But at the threshold, Kate turned.
“Oh, I nearly forgot! They sent up from Mr. Northrup’s office this morning for some documents or deeds or something which they thought Mr. Chester might have in his pockets. The nurse brought out his clothes so that Mrs. Tiffany and I might go through them—I felt like a pickpocket. And we came across a package of proofs—photographs of him. We opened it to see if the old deeds might be in there. And they’re 265 such stunning likenesses—Muller, you know—that I thought it would do you good to see them.”
“Thank you, I should like to.”
Kate drew the photographs from her bosom and handed them over. As Eleanor took them and began mechanically to inspect them, she caught an unconsidered trifle. Kate was not leaving the room. She had stepped over to the cheval-mirror, which faced the bed, and was adjusting the ribbon in her hair. Looking across the photographs through her lashes, Eleanor saw that the counterfeit eyes of Kate in the mirror were trained dead upon her.
She examined them, therefore, with indifference; she stopped in the middle of her inspection to ask if Judge Tiffany were up yet.
“They’re excellent likenesses,” she went on indifferently. “That’s a good composition. I don’t care so much for this one. That’s a poor pose.” She had come now to the bottom of the pile. This last print was one of those spirited profiles by which Muller, master-photographer, so illuminates character.
“Oh, that’s a wonder,” cried Eleanor. “Such a profile!” Then, at the thought how 266 Kate might misinterpret this purely artistic enthusiasm, she dropped her voice to indifference again.
“Won’t you please tell Aunt Mattie that I will get up if I can be of any use?” And she held out the package.
Kate packed up the tray and withdrew. Eleanor heard the muffled tap of her heels in the hall. The sound stopped abruptly. It was fully a minute before they went on again.
Kate, in fact, had rested the tray on a hall table, drawn out the photographs, and run over them, looking at them with all her eyes. The profile was at the bottom of the package. When she reached that, she hesitated a moment; then, with a quivering motion that ran from her fingers over her whole body, she tore it in two. Short as this explosion was, her recovery was quicker. She glanced with apprehension over her shoulder at the door of Eleanor’s room, tucked the photographs back in her bosom, and took up the tray again.