d her husband and
daughter left the parlor and went up stairs. The moment they were beyond
observation she glided noiselessly through the hall, and reached her
chamber without being noticed. Soon afterward she came down dressed for
visiting, and went out hastily, her veil closely drawn. Her manner was
hurried. Descending the steps, she stood for a single moment, as if
hesitating which way to go, and then moved off rapidly. Soon she had
passed out of the fashionable neighborhood in which she lived. After
this she walked more slowly, and with the air of one whose mind was
in doubt or hesitation. Once she stopped, and turning about, slowly
retraced her steps for the distance of a square. Then she wheeled
around, as if from some new and strong resolve, and went on again. At
last she paused before a respectable-looking house of moderate size in a
neighborhood remote from the busier and more thronged parts of the city.
The shutters were all bowed down to the parlor, and the house had a
quiet, unobtrusive look. Mrs. Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up
and down the street, and then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the
bell.

"Is Mrs. Hoyt in?" she asked of a stupid-looking girl who came to the
door.

"Yes, ma'am," was answered.

"Tell her a lady wants to see her;" and she passed into the
plainly-furnished parlor. There were no pictures on the walls nor
ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any evidence of taste--nothing
home-like--in the shadowed room, the atmosphere of which was close and
heavy. She waited here for a few moments, when there was a rustle of
garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the stairs. A small,
dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered the parlor.

"Mrs. Bray--no, Mrs. Hoyt."

"Mrs. Dinneford;" and the two women stood face to face for a few
moments, each regarding the other keenly.

"Mrs. Hoyt--don't forget," said the former, with a warning emphasis in
her voice. "Mrs. Bray is dead."

In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were indeed so.

"Anything wrong?" asked the black-eyed little woman.

"Do you know a Pinky Swett?" asked Mrs. Dinneford, abruptly.

Mrs. Hoyt--so we must now call her--betrayed surprise at this
question, and was about answering "No," but checked herself and gave a
half-hesitating "Yes," adding the question, "What about her?"

Before Mrs. Dinneford could reply, however, Mrs. Hoyt took hold of her
arm and said, "Come up to my room. Walls have ears sometimes,