had been aroused by many things in Edith's manner and conduct of late,
and she had watched her every look and word and movement with a keenness
of observation that let nothing escape. Careful as her husband and
daughter were in their interviews, it was impossible to conceal anything
from eyes that never failed in watchfulness. An unguarded word here, a
look of mutual intelligence there, a sudden silence when she appeared,
an unusual soberness of demeanor and evident absorbed interest in
something they were careful to conceal, had the effect to quicken all
Mrs. Dinneford's alarms and suspicions.

She had seen from the top of the stairs a brief but excited interview
pass between Edith and her father as the latter stood in the vestibule
that morning, and she had noticed the almost wild look on her daughter's
face as she hastened back along the hall and ran up to her room. Here
she stayed alone for over an hour, and then came down to the parlor,
where she remained restless, moving about or standing by the window for
a greater part of the morning.

There was something more than usual on hand. Guilt in its guesses came
near the truth. What could all this mean, if it had not something to
do with the cast-off baby? Certainty at last came. She was in the
dining-room when Edith ran down to meet her father in the hall, and
slipped noiselessly and unobserved into one of the parlors, where,
concealed by a curtain, she heard everything that passed between her
husband and daughter.

Still as death she stood, holding down the strong pulses of her heart.
From the hall Edith and her father turned into one of the parlors--the
same in which Mrs. Dinneford was concealed behind the curtain--and sat
down.

"It had large brown eyes?" said Edith, a yearning tenderness in her
voice.

"Yes, and a finely-formed bead, showing good parentage," returned the
father.

"Didn't you find out who the women were--the two bad women the little
girl told me about? If we had their names, the police could find them.
The little girl's mother must know who they are."

"We have the name of one of them," said Mr. Dinneford. "She is called
Pinky Swett, and it can't be long before the police are on her track.
She is said to be a desperate character. Nothing more can be done now;
we must wait until the police work up the affair. I will call at the
mayor's office in the morning and find out what has been done."

Mrs. Dinneford heard no more. The bell rang, an