rs. Hunt. Oh, says Miss Blake, I thought
she was out, too. But it seems Mrs. Hunt was in her private sittin'
room; she'd had a slight bilious attack, and she'd got her corsets off
and somethin' loose on, the way women do, and was all set for a good
read. So the maid didn't think she could see Miss Blake, but anyhow she
took in her card--and Mrs. Hunt decided to see her. That maid Iffley's
an intelligent woman; she's all broke up, but she ain't hysterical like
the cook--who didn't see nothin' anyway. The parlor maid was havin' her
night off, but she's back now, too, and I've got 'em all safe where they
can't talk to outsiders, yet. I don't want this thing in the papers
to-morrow, not if I can help it; I want to keep it dark till I know
better where I'm gettin' off."

"Right!" I approved. "What's the maid's story?"

"Well, I've questioned her pretty close, and I think it's to be relied
on. It hits me that way. Mrs. Hunt, she says, when she took in Miss
Blake's card, was lyin' on her couch in a long trailin' thing--what
ladies call a negligee."

"Yes?"

"And she was cuttin' the pages of some new book with that paper-knife I
spoke of."

"Yes?"

"And her dog, a runty little French bull, was sleepin' on the rug beside
the couch."

"What does that matter?"

"More'n you'd think! He's got a broken leg--provin' some kind of a
struggle must'a'----"

"I see. Go on!"

"Well, Mrs. Hunt, the maid says, looked at Miss Blake's card a minute
and didn't say anythin' special, but seemed kind of puzzled. Her only
words was, 'Yes, I ought to see her.' So the maid goes for Miss Blake
and shows her to the door, which she'd left ajar, and taps on it for
her, and Mrs. Hunt calls to come in. So Miss Blake goes in and shuts the
door after her, and the maid comes back to this room we're in now--it's
round the corner of the hall from Mrs. Hunt's room--see? But she don't
much more than get here--just to the door--when she hears the dog give a
screech and then go on cryin' like as if he'd been hurt. The cook was in
here, too, and she claims she heard a kind of jarrin' sound, like
somethin' heavy fallin'; but Iffley--that's the maid, they call her
Iffley--says all she noticed was the dog. Anyway she listened a second,
then she started for Mrs. Hunt's room--and the cook, bein' nervous,
locked herself in here and sat with her eyes tight shut and her fingers
in her ears. Fact. She says she can't bear nothin' disagreeable. Too bad
about her,