Was it-could it be, on her own account? Recalling what
I had heard whispered about the station concerning a maid of the
Jeffreys who always seemed on the point of saying something which
never really left her lips, I stopped her as she was about to slip
upstairs and quietly asked:
"Are you Loretta?"
The way she turned, the way she looked at me as she gave me a short
affirmative, and then quickly proceeded on her way, convinced me
that my colleagues were right as to her being a woman who had some
cause for dreading police interference. I instantly made up my mind
that here was a mine to be worked and that I knew just the demure
little soul best equipped to act the part of miner.
In a moment she came back, and I had a chance to note again her
pretty but expressionless features, among which the restless eyes
alone bespoke character or decision.
"Mr. Jeffrey is in the back room upstairs," she announced. "He
says for you to come up."
"Is it the room Mrs. Jeffrey used to occupy?" I asked with open
curiosity, as I passed her.
An involuntary shudder proved that she was not without feeling.
So did the quick disclaimer:
"No, no! Those rooms are closed. He occupies the one Miss Tuttle
had before she went away."
"Oh, then, Miss Tuttle is gone?"
Loretta disdained to answer.
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