“Is Mrs. Hoyt in?” she asked of a stupid-looking girl who came to the door.

“Yes, ma’am,” was answered.

“Tell her a lady wants to see her;” and she passed into the plainly-furnished parlor.  There were no pictures on the walls nor ornaments on the mantel-piece, nor any evidence of taste—­nothing home-like—­in the shadowed room, the atmosphere of which was close and heavy.  She waited here for a few moments, when there was a rustle of garments and the sound of light, quick feet on the stairs.  A small, dark-eyed, sallow-faced woman entered the parlor.

“Mrs. Bray—­no, Mrs. Hoyt.”

“Mrs. Dinneford;” and the two women stood face to face for a few moments, each regarding the other keenly.

“Mrs. Hoyt—­don’t forget,” said the former, with a warning emphasis in her voice.  “Mrs. Bray is dead.”

In her heart Mrs. Dinneford wished that it were indeed so.

“Anything wrong?” asked the black-eyed little woman.

“Do you know a Pinky Swett?” asked Mrs. Dinneford, abruptly.

Mrs. Hoyt—­so we must now call her—­betrayed surprise at this question, and was about answering “No,” but checked herself and gave a half-hesitating “Yes,” adding the question, “What about her?”

Before Mrs. Dinneford could reply, however, Mrs. Hoyt took hold of her arm and said, “Come up to my room.  Walls have ears sometimes, and I will not answer for these.”

Mrs. Dinneford went with her up stairs to a chamber in the rear part of the building.

“We shall be out of earshot here,” said Mrs. Hoyt as she closed the door, locking it at the same time.  “And now tell me what’s up, and what about Pinky Swett.”

“You know her?”

“Yes, slightly.”

“More than slightly, I guess.”

Mrs. Hoyt’s eyes flashed impatiently.  Mrs. Dinneford saw it, and took warning.

“She’s got that cursed baby.”

“How do you know?”

“No matter how I know.  It’s enough that I know.  Who is she?”

“That question may be hard to answer.  About all I know of her is that she came from the country a few years ago, and has been drifting about here ever since.”

“What is she doing with that baby? and how did she get hold of it?”

“Questions more easily asked than answered.”

“Pshaw!  I don’t want any beating about the bush, Mrs. Bray.”

“Mrs. Hoyt,” said the person addressed.

“Oh, well, Mrs. Hoyt, then.  We ought to understand each other by this time.”

“I guess we do;” and the little woman arched her brows.

“I don’t want any beating about the bush,” resumed Mrs. Dinneford.  “I am here on business.”

“Very well; let’s to business, then;” and Mrs. Hoyt leaned back in her chair.

“Edith knows that this woman has the baby,” said Mrs. Dinneford.

“What!” and Mrs. Hoyt started to her feet.

“The mayor has been seen, and the police are after her.”