ced at him without moving her head, then she looked
away, her face quivering slightly, more as if from a reflection of
his agitation than from her own. "You say you saw her," she said.

"This afternoon," the man went on, "I got fairly desperate. I
resolved to go to the fountain-head for information, and take my
chances. So down I went to Maple Street, where the Brewsters live,
and I rang the front-door bell, and the child's aunt, a handsome,
breathless kind of creature, came and ushered me into the best
parlor, and went into the next room--the sitting-room--to call the
others. I caught sight of enough women for a woman's club in the
sitting-room. Then Andrew Brewster came in, and I offered my legal
services out of friendly interest in the case, and in that way I
found out what I wanted to. Cynthia, that child has not told."

Cynthia raised herself and sat straight, and her face flashed like a
white flame. "Were they harsh to her?" she demanded. "Were they
cruel? Did they question her, and were they harsh and cruel because
she would not tell? Why did you not tell them yourself? Why did you
not, Lyman Risley? Why did you not tell the whole story rather than
have that child blamed? Well, I will go myself. I will go this
minute. They shall not blame that darling. What do you think I care
for myself? Let them lynch me if they want to. I will go this
minute!" Cynthia sprang to her feet, but Risley, with a hoarse
shout under his breath, caught hold of her and forced her back.

"For God's sake, sit down, Cynthia!" he said. "Didn't you hear the
door-bell? Somebody is coming."

The door-bell had in fact rung, and Cynthia had not noticed it. She
lay back in her chair as the door opened, and Mrs. Norman Lloyd
entered. "Good-evening, Cynthia," she said, beamingly. "I thought I
would stop a few minutes on my way to meeting. I'm rather early. No,
don't get up," as Cynthia rose. "Don't get up; I can only stay a
minute. Never mind about giving me a chair, Mr. Risley--thank you.
Yes, this is a real comfortable chair." Mrs. Lloyd, seated where
the firelight played over her wide sweep of rich skirts, and her
velvet fur-trimmed cloak and plumed bonnet, beamed upon them with an
expansive benevolence and kindliness. She was a large, handsome,
florid woman. Her grayish-brown hair was carefully crimped, and
looped back from her fat, pink cheeks, a fine shell-and-gold comb
surmounted her smooth French twist, and held her bonnet in place.