“And now what is it you have to say?” asked the former, almost as soon as she had entered.

“The woman to whom you gave that baby was here yesterday.”

A frightened expression came into Mrs. Dinneford’s face.  Mrs. Bray watched her keenly as, with lips slightly apart, she waited for what more was to come.

“Unfortunately, she met me just as I was at my own door, and so found out my residence,” continued Mrs. Bray.  “I was in hopes I should never see her again.  We shall have trouble, I’m afraid.”

“In what way?”

“A bad woman who has you in her power can trouble you in many ways,” answered Mrs. Bray.

“She did not know my name—­you assured me of that.  It was one of the stipulations.”

“She does know, and your daughter’s name also.  And she knows where the baby is.  She’s deeper than I supposed.  It’s never safe to trust such people; they have no honor.”

Fear sent all the color out of Mrs. Dinneford’s face.

“What does she want?”

“Money.”

“She was paid liberally.”

“That has nothing to do with it.  These people have no honor, as I said; they will get all they can.”

“How much does she want?”

“A hundred dollars; and it won’t end there, I’m thinking.  If she is refused, she will go to your house; she gave me that alternative—­would have gone yesterday, if good luck had not thrown her in my way.  I promised to call on you and see what could be done.”

Mrs. Dinneford actually groaned in her fear and distress.

“Would you like to see her yourself?” coolly asked Mrs. Bray.

“Oh dear! no, no!” and the lady put up her hands in dismay.

“It might be best,” said her wily companion.

“No, no, no!  I will have nothing to do with her!  You must keep her away from me,” replied Mrs. Dinneford, with increasing agitation.

“I cannot keep her away without satisfying her demands.  If you were to see her yourself, you would know just what her demands were.  If you do not see her, you will only have my word for it, and I am left open to misapprehension, if not worse.  I don’t like to be placed in such a position.”

And Mrs. Bray put on a dignified, half-injured manner.

“It’s a wretched business in every way,” she added, “and I’m sorry that I ever had anything to do with it.  It’s something dreadful, as I told you at the time, to cast a helpless baby adrift in such a way.  Poor little soul!  I shall never feel right about it.”

“That’s neither here nor there;” and Mrs. Dinneford waved her hand impatiently.  “The thing now in hand is to deal with this woman.”

“Yes, that’s it—­and as I said just now, I would rather have you deal with her yourself; you may be able to do it better than I can.”

“It’s no use to talk, Mrs. Bray.  I will not see the woman.”

“Very well; you must be your own judge in the case.”