“Huh, that's strange!” Mrs. Chumley's purposely averted glance came back to the wrinkled face of her neighbor, and remained fixed there in a direct and probing stare. “That's queer, for I certainly saw him hand her a letter over the fence as plain as I see that tub of suds. I saw her reading it, too.” “You must be mistaken.” Mrs. Barry's face had changed. There were splotches of pallor in her gaunt cheeks. “No, I couldn't be. I don't make mistakes in things of that sort--not of _that_ sort.” Mrs. Barry was silent. She was forced to admit that if any pair of earthly eyes could detect a hidden thing those eyes were now eagerly blinking under the sinister brows before her. As she stared into the reddish, freckled face, certain long-subdued fears rose within her. She felt faint, and had a sensation as if all visible objects were whirling around her. Then she became anchored by something in the gossip's glance which, had she has been less afraid, she would have taken as direct insult. It was as if the washerwoman were saying: “Well, you know I can sympathize with you. I have been through it all.” “She came back in the house after the postman had gone on,” Mrs. Barry faltered, “and told me there wasn't any letter.” The poor woman felt that her defence, if defence it might be called, was falling on wilfully closed ears, and again she was conscious of that rocking, floating sensation. The round, red visage of the washerwoman seemed to recede from her; there was a sound as of roaring water in her ears. But through it all the insistent voice of her tormentor beat into her consciousness. “If she didn't show it to you, she _hid_ it; I'm dead sure of that. She _hid_ it. I have been watching your girl, Mrs. Barry, for several weeks, and I'm free to say that something has gone wrong with her. A body can see it in the drooping way she has in moving about. The day you sent her over for the salt I thought, on my soul, she'd drop in her tracks before she left the kitchen. Maybe the letter was to tell her where the scamp was going, or--or--well, there could be lots a fellow like that might say at such a time. But I'll be bound, he was putting her off. They all do. It is man-nature.” “I am sure she didn't _get_ any letter,” Mrs. Barry said, and she now tore herself away, conscious of her overwhelming disadvantage in the adroit woman's hands. “Well, you'll find out I'm right,” was the shot which struck her in the back as she turned the corner of the cottage. “If you don't believe me, you can ask the postman; there he is--coming down the street right now.” But Mrs. Barry did not pause. She went into the house and closed her door. She stood in the middle of the room like a creature deprived of animation. Through the parted curtains of an open window she heard the washerwoman call out to the man in uniform: