As Mrs. Bingham went out she noticed a French book lying on a side table.
The day following was Sunday, and Mrs. Fairfax and her daughter were at church. They sat at the back, and all the congregation turned on entering, looked at them, and thought about them during the service. They went out as soon as it was over, but Mrs. Harrop, wife of the ironmonger, and Mrs. Cobb, wife of the coal merchant, escaped with equal promptitude and were close behind them.
“There isn’t a crease in that body,” said Mrs. Harrop.
On Monday Mrs. Bingham was at the post-office. She took care to be there at the dinner hour, when the postmaster’s wife generally came to the counter.
“A newcomer, Mrs. Carter. Have you seen Mrs. Fairfax?”
“Once or twice, ma’am.”
“Has she many letters?”
The door between the office and the parlour was open.
“I’ve no doubt she will have, ma’am, if her business succeeds.”
“I wonder where she lived before she came here. It is curious, isn’t it, that nobody knows her? Did you ever notice how her letters are stamped?”