holds a hood about her face. She is dressed darkly, and seems small.
But, she is real. The plot is real.—I feel the force of it all at once, and tremble.
It is too late to receive her, now. Instead I must wait further, while she is given a supper and brought to her room; and then I must lie, hearing her step and murmur, my eyes upon the door—an inch or two of desiccated wood!—that lies between her chamber and
mine.
Once I rise and go stealthily to it, and put my ear to the panels; but hear nothing.
Next morning I have Margaret carefully dress me, and while she pulls at my laces I say, ''I believe Miss Smith has come. Did you see her, Margaret?''
''Yes, miss.''
''Do you think she will do?''
''Do, miss?''
''As girl to me.''
She tosses her head. ''Seemed rather low in her manners,'' she says. ''Been half a dozen times to France and I don''t know where, though. Made sure Mr Inker knew that.''
''Well, we must be kind to her. It will seem dull to her here, perhaps, after London.'' She says nothing. ''Will you have Mrs Stiles bring her to me, so soon as she has taken her breakfast?''
I have lain all night, sometimes sleeping, sometimes waking, oppressed with the nearness and obscurity of her. I must see her now, before I go to my uncle, or I fear I will grow ill. At last, at half-past seven or so, I hear an unfamiliar tread in the passage that leads from the servants'' staircase; and then Mrs Stiles''s murmur: ''Here we are.'' There comes a knock upon my door. How should I stand? I stand at the fire. Does my voice sound queer, when I call out? Does she mark it? Does she hold her breath? I know I hold mine; then I feel myself colour, and will the blood from my face. The door is opened. Mrs Stiles comes first and, after a moment''s hesitation, she is before me: Susan—Susan Smith—Suky Tawdry—the gullible girl, who is to take my life from me and give me freedom.