At last a taxi-cab stopped at the corner, and a young woman got out and walked towards the house.  If this were Miss Trimble, she certainly looked capable.  She was a stumpy, square-shouldered person, and even at that distance it was possible to perceive that she had a face of no common shrewdness and determination.  The next moment she had turned down the side-street in the direction of the back-premises of Mrs. Pett’s house:  and a few minutes later Mr. Crocker presented himself.

“A young person wishes to see you, madam.  A young person of the name of Trimble.”  A pang passed through Mrs. Pett as she listened to his measured tones.  It was tragic that so perfect a butler should be a scoundrel.  “She says that you desired her to call in connection with a situation.”

“Show her up here, Skinner.  She is the new parlour-maid.  I will send her down to you when I have finished speaking to her.”

“Very good, madam.”

There seemed to Mrs. Pett to be a faint touch of defiance in Miss Trimble’s manner as she entered the room.  The fact was that Miss Trimble held strong views on the equal distribution of property, and rich people’s houses always affected her adversely.  Mr. Crocker retired, closing the door gently behind him.

A meaning sniff proceeded from Mrs. Pett’s visitor as she looked round at the achievements of the interior decorator, who had lavished his art unsparingly in this particular room.  At this close range she more than fulfilled the promise of that distant view which Mrs. Pett had had of her from the window.  Her face was not only shrewd and determined:  it was menacing.  She had thick eyebrows, from beneath which small, glittering eyes looked out like dangerous beasts in undergrowth:  and the impressive effect of these was accentuated by the fact that, while the left eye looked straight out at its object, the right eye had a sort of roving commission and was now, while its colleague fixed Mrs. Pett with a gimlet stare, examining the ceiling.  As to the rest of the appearance of this remarkable woman, her nose was stubby and aggressive, and her mouth had the coldly forbidding look of the closed door of a subway express when you have just missed the train.  It bade you keep your distance on pain of injury.  Mrs. Pett, though herself a strong woman, was conscious of a curious weakness as she looked at a female of the species so much deadlier than any male whom she had ever encountered:  and came near feeling a half-pity for the unhappy wretches on whom this dynamic maiden was to be unleashed.  She hardly knew how to open the conversation.

Miss Trimble, however, was equal to the occasion.  She always preferred to open conversations herself.  Her lips parted, and words flew out as if shot from a machine-gun.  As far as Mrs. Pett could observe, she considered it unnecessary to part her teeth, preferring to speak with them clenched.  This gave an additional touch of menace to her speech.