“She’s too young to act like that,” opined Mrs. Welby. “Oh, she isn’t so terribly young,” Miss Bascom returned. “She’s too experienced to be so very young.” “How do you know she’s experienced? What makes you say that?” “Why,” Miss Bascom hesitated for words, “she’s—sort of sophisticated—you can see that from her looks. I mean when anything is discussed at the table, she doesn’t say a word, but you can tell from her face that she knows all about it—I mean a matter of general interest, don’t you know. I don’t mean local matters.” “She’s an intelligent girl, I know, but that doesn’t make her out old. I don’t believe she’s twenty.” “Oh, she is! Why, she’s twenty-five or twenty-seven!” “Never in the world! I’m going to ask her.” “Ask her!” Miss Bascom laughed. “You’ll get well snubbed if you do.” But this prophecy only served to egg Mrs. Welby on, and she took the first occasion to carry out her promise. She met Anita in the hall, as the girl was about to go out, and smilingly detained her. “Why so aloof, my dear,” she said, playfully. “You rarely give us a chance to entertain you.” As Mrs. Welby was between Anita and the door, the girl was forced to pause. She looked the older woman over, with an appraising glance that was not rude, but merely disinterested. “No?” she said, with a curious rising inflection, that somehow seemed meant to close the incident. But Mrs. Welby was not so easily baffled. “No,” she repeated, smilingly. “And we want to know you better. You’re too young and too pretty not to be a general favorite amongst us. How old are you, my dear child?” “Just a hundred,” and Miss Austin’s dark eyes were so grave, and seemed to hold such a world of wisdom and experience that Mrs. Welby almost jumped. Too amazed to reply, she even let the girl get past her, and out of the street door, before she recovered her poise. “She’s uncanny,” Mrs. Welby declared, when telling Miss Bascom of the interview. “I give you my word, when she said that, she looked a hundred!” “Looked a hundred! What do you mean?” “Just that. Her eyes seemed to hold all there is of knowledge, yes—and of evil—” “Evil! My goodness!” Miss Bascom rolled this suggestion like a sweet morsel under her tongue. “Oh—I don’t say there’s anything wrong about the girl—” “Well! If her eyes showed depths of evil, I should say there _was_ something wrong!” The episode was repeated from one to another of the exclusive _clientele_ of the Adams house, until, by exaggeration and imagination it grew into quite a respectable arraignment of Miss Mystery, and branded her as a doubtful character if not a dangerous one. Before Miss Austin had been in the house a week, she had definitely settled her status from her own point of view. Uniformly correct and courteous of manner, she rarely spoke, save when necessary. It was as if she had declared, “I will not talk. If this be mystery, make the most of it.”