Those were the only words spoken. The carriage rolled out to Broadway
and then turned northward, making such progress as was possible along
that crowded thoroughfare. I glanced from time to time at the women
opposite, and was struck by the contrast in their behaviour. One sat
quite still, her hands in her lap, her head bent, admirably
self-contained; the other was restless and uneasy, unable to control
a nervous twitching of the fingers. I wondered why the maid should
seem more upset than her mistress, and decided finally that her
uneasiness was merely lack of breeding. But the contrast interested
me.
At Tenth Street, the carriage turned westward again, skirted
Washington Square, turned into the Avenue, and stopped before the
Vantine house. Mr. Hornblower assisted the women to alight, and I led
the way up the steps. But as we reached the top and came upon the
funeral wreath on the door, the veiled lady stopped with a little
exclamation.
"I did not know," she said, quickly. "Perhaps, after all, we would
better wait. I did not realise...."
"There are no relatives to be hurt, madame," I interrupted. "As for
the dead man, what can it matter to him?" and I rang the bell.
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