Madame Coralie looked at her swiftly. "You were fond of her?" "Of course. Was she not my mother? Besides, she was all that was good and kind to me. And," added Audrey, clenching her fist so tightly that her glove split, "if no one else will revenge her by finding out who killed her, I shall do so." "I fear you have undertaken a search which will never be ended," said her aunt, in a pitying tone; "but the feeling does you credit. I shall assist you by all the means in my power, my dear; for not only was poor Dora my sister, but her death has harmed my business." "We can talk of what we will do later," said Audrey, quickly. "Meanwhile, go on with your story." "A very dull story, I fear, my dear," said Madame Coralie, with a sigh. "Joseph, like Dora and myself, was the child of a labourer. We lived next door to one another. Then Joseph fell in love with Dora, because she was pretty, and went away to make his fortune. The papers will tell you how he did, so there is no need for me to talk about that. But I will say that Joseph behaved well to Dora, for he returned to marry her. Then the ways of my sister and myself parted, and she went on a golden road, while I"--Madame Coralie glanced round the room again with great scorn--"while I made for this goal." "Did you not see my mother occasionally?" "Not for many years, my dear. I got married to a gamekeeper--the gamekeeper of Squire Shawe, of Bleakleigh. He was killed by poachers within a year of marriage, and left me with a few hundred pounds in hand. There was no child, and there was nothing to keep me in Bleakleigh, since my parents were dead, so I came to London. Then--" Madame Coralie shivered. "What happened then?" asked Audrey, sympathetically. "Trouble. I was born to trouble, my dear. Everything that could go wrong with me went wrong. I tried the stage, and failed. I became a lecturer, and lost my voice--you hear how hoarse it is still. I went to America as a lady's-maid, and was stranded there in San Francisco. I worked as a typist; I laboured in a laundry; I took to reporting; I edited a woman's paper, and did all I could to keep myself above water. As a reporter I was sent to Paris in the interests of the paper. It failed, and I went in for massaging people. Then--well, to make a long story short, I learnt from a friend of mine in Paris all kinds of secrets about the art of making women beautiful. It struck me that I might start in London. I came back and wrote to Dora. There was no difficulty in finding her, as she was by this time Lady Branwin, the wife of a millionaire. I am bound to say that Dora behaved very well. She said nothing to her brute of a husband, but managed in some way to get enough to start me in this business. Then--" Madame Coralie stopped abruptly, with a gesture. "That's all, my dear." "And does the business pay?" asked Audrey, mindful of what Ralph had said regarding the difficulties of the woman before her.