“Mrs. Bray!” exclaimed Mrs. Dinneford, suspicion blazing from her eyes.  “Mrs. Bray!”—­and she turned upon her and caught her by the arms with a fierce grip—­“as I live, you are deceiving me.  There is no woman but yourself.  You are the vampire!”

She held the unresisting little woman in her vigorous grasp for some moments, gazing at her in stern and angry accusation.

Mrs. Bray stood very quit and with scarcely a change of countenance until this outburst of passion had subsided.  She was still holding the money she had taken from Mrs. Dinneford.  As the latter released her she extended her hand, saying, in a low resolute voice, in which not the faintest thrill of anger could be detected,

“Take your money.”  She waited for a moment, and then let the little roll of bank-bills fall at Mrs. Dinneford’s feet and turned away.

Mrs. Dinneford had made a mistake, and she saw it—­saw that she was now more than ever in the power of this woman, whether she was true or false.  If false, more fatally in her power.

At this dead-lock in the interview between these women there came a diversion.  The sound of feet was heard on the stairs, then a hurrying along the narrow passage; a hand was on the door, but the key had been prudently turned on the inside.

With a quick motion, Mrs. Bray waved her hand toward the adjoining chamber.  Mrs. Dinneford did not hesitate, but glided in noiselessly, shutting and locking the door behind her.

“Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Bray, in a low voice, putting her finger to her lips, as she admitted her visitor, at the same time giving a warning glance toward the other room.  Eyeing her from head to foot, she added, “Well, you are an object!”

Pinky had drawn aside a close veil, exhibiting a bruised and swollen face.  A dark band lay under one of her eyes, and there was a cut with red, angry margins on the cheek.

“You are an object,” repeated Mrs. Bray as Pinky moved forward into the room.

“Well, I am, and no mistake,” answered Pinky, with a light laugh.  She had been drinking enough to overcome the depression and discomfort of her feelings consequent on the hard usage she had received and a night in one of the city station-houses.  “Who’s in there?”

Mrs. Bray’s finger went again to her lips.  “No matter,” was replied.  “You must go away until the coast is clear.  Come back in half an hour.”

And she hurried Pinky out of the door, locking it as the girl retired.  When Mrs. Dinneford came out of the room into which he had gone so hastily, the roll of bank-notes still lay upon the floor.  Mrs. Bray had prudently slipped them into her pocket before admitting Pinky, but as soon as she was alone had thrown them down again.

The face of Mrs. Dinneford was pale, and exhibited no ordinary signs of discomfiture and anxiety.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“A friend,” replied Mrs. Bray, in a cold, self-possessed manner.