and so no-one marks it.
No-one, perhaps, save Mrs Stiles. For I think only she, of anyone there, ever gazes at Richard and wonders if he is all the gentleman he claims to be. I catch her look, sometimes. I believe she sees through him. I believe she thinks he has come to cheat me and do me harm. But, thinking it—and hating me—she keeps the thought to herself; and nurses her hope of my ruin, smiling, as she once nursed her dying child.
These, then, are the metals with which our trap is made, the forces that prime it and sharpen its teeth. And when it is all complete— ''Now,'' says Richard, ''our work begins.
''We must get rid of Agnes.''
He says it in a whisper, with his eyes upon her, as she sits at the window bent over her work. He says it so coolly, with so steady a gaze, I am almost afraid of him. I think I draw back. Then he looks at me.
''You know that we must,'' he says.
''Of course.''
''And you understand how?''
I have not, until this moment. Now I see his face.
''It''s quite the only way,'' he goes on, ''with virtuous girls like that. Will stop up a mouth, better even than menaces, or coins . . .'' He has picked up a paintbrush, puts the hairs to his lip and begins to run them, idly, back and forth. ''Don''t trouble with the details,'' he says smoothly. ''There''s not much to it. Not much, at all—'' He smiles. She has looked up from her work, and he has caught her eye. ''How is the day, Agnes?'' he calls. ''Still fair?''