"Surely by this time you regard me as a trustworthy person," she said. So Fowle had proven himself a capable tracker, and Winifred's persecutors were again closing in on her. But who would have imagined that the worst and most deadly of them might be the mother of her Rex? That, surely, was something akin to steeping in poison the assassin's dagger. CHAPTER XV THE VISITOR "Are you Miss Winifred Bartlett?" asked Mrs. Carshaw the next afternoon in that remote part of East Twenty-seventh Street which for the first time bore the rubber tires of her limousine. "Yes, madam," said Winifred, who stood rather pale before that large and elegant presence. It was in the front room of the two which Winifred occupied. "But--where have I seen you before?" asked Mrs. Carshaw suddenly, making play with a pair of mounted eye-glasses. "I cannot say, madam. Will you be seated?" "What a pretty girl you are!" exclaimed the visitor, wholly unconscious of the calm insolence which "society" uses to its inferiors. "I'm certain I have seen you somewhere, for your face is perfectly familiar, but for the life of me I cannot recall the occasion." Mrs. Carshaw was not mistaken. Some dim cell of memory was stirred by the girl's likeness to her mother. For once Senator Meiklejohn's scheming had brought him to the edge of the precipice. But the dangerous moment passed. Rex's mother was thinking of other and more immediate matters. Winifred stood silent, scared, with a foreboding of the meaning of this tremendous visit. "Now, I am come to have a quiet chat with you," said Mrs. Carshaw, "and I only hope that you will look on me as a friend, and be perfectly at your ease. I am sorry the nature of my visit is not of a quite pleasant nature, but no doubt we shall be able to understand each other, for you look good and sweet. Where have I seen you before? You are a sweetly pretty girl, do you know? I can't altogether blame poor Rex, for men are not very rational creatures, are they? Come, now, and sit quite near beside me on this chair, and let me talk to you." Winifred came and sat, with tremulous lip, not saying a word. "First, I wish to know something about yourself," said Mrs. Carshaw, trying honestly to adopt a motherly tone. "Do you live here all alone? Where are your parents?" "I have none--as far as I know. Yes, I live here alone, for the present." "But no relatives?" "I have an aunt--a sort of aunt--but--" "You are mysterious--'a sort of aunt.' And is this 'sort of aunt' with you here?" "No. I used to live with her, but within the last month we have--separated." "Is that my son's doings?" "No--that is--no." "So you are quite alone?" "Yes." "And my son comes to see you?" "He comes--yes, he comes." "But that is rather defiant of everything, is it not?" A blush of almost intense carmine washed Winifred's face and neck. Mrs. Carshaw knew how to strike hard. Every woman knows how to hurt another woman.