The mention of Doctor Lingard took me back to the night of the burglary. I wondered if to tell Miss Emily would unduly agitate her. I think I would not have told her, but I caught the girl's eye, across the bed, raised from her knitting and fixed on me with a peculiar intensity. Suddenly it seemed to me that Miss Emily was surrounded by a conspiracy of silence, and it roused my antagonism. "There are plenty of lettuces," I said, "although a few were trampled by a runaway horse the other night. It is rather a curious story." So I told her of our night visitor. I told it humorously, lightly, touching on my own horror at finding I had been standing with my hand on the burglar's shoulder. But I was sorry for my impulse immediately, for I saw Miss Emily's body grow rigid, and her hands twist together. She did not look at me. She stared fixedly at the girl. Their eyes met. It was as if Miss Emily asked a question which the girl refused to answer. It was as certain as though it had been a matter of words instead of glances. It was over in a moment. Miss Bullard went back to her knitting, but Miss Emily lay still. "I think I should not have told you," I apologized. "I thought it might interest you. Of course nothing whatever was taken, and no damage done--except to the lettuces." "Anne," said Miss Emily, "will you bring me some fresh water?" The girl rose reluctantly, but she did not go farther than the top of the staircase, just beyond the door. We heard her calling to some one below, in her clear young voice, to bring the water, and the next moment she was back in the room. But Miss Emily had had the opportunity for one sentence. "I know now," she said quietly, "that you have found it." Anne Bullard was watching from the doorway, and it seemed to me, having got so far, I could not retreat. I must go on. "Miss Bullard," I said. "I would like to have just a short conversation with Miss Emily. It is about a private matter. I am sure you will not mind if I ask you--" "I shall not go out." "Anne!" said Miss Emily sharply. The girl was dogged enough by that time. Both dogged and frightened, I felt. But she stood her ground. "She is not to be worried about anything," she insisted. "And she's not supposed to have visitors. That's the doctor's orders." I felt outraged and indignant, but against the stone wall of the girl's presence and her distrust I was helpless. I got up, with as much dignity as I could muster. "I should have been told that downstairs." "The woman's a fool," said Anne Bullard, with a sort of suppressed fierceness. She stood aside as, having said good-by to Miss Emily, I went out, and I felt that she hardly breathed until I had got safely to the street.