"Let's go over to your house.
See, there are people coming."
The little lady yielded to the other's constraining hand and
together they crossed the street. Once in the house, Deborah
allowed her full apprehension to show itself.
"What were the words? What was on the paper? Anything about--"
The little woman's look of horror stopped her.
"It's a lie, an awful, abominable lie. But think of such a lie
being pasted up on that dreadful bridge for any one to see. After
twelve years, Mrs. Scoville! After--" But here indignation changed
suddenly into suspicion, and eyeing her visitor with sudden
disfavour she cried: "This is your work, madam. Your inquiries and
your talk of John Scoville's innocence has set wagging all the
villainous tongues in town. And I remember something else. How you
came smirking into this very room one day, with your talk about
caps and Oliver Ostrander's doings on the day when Algernon
Etheridge was murdered. You were in search of information, I see;
information against the best, the brightest--Well, why don't you
speak? I'll give you the chance if you want it. Don't stand
looking at me like that. I'm not used to it, Mrs. Scoville. I'm a
peaceable woman and I'm not used to it."
"Miss Weeks--" Ah, the oil of that golden speech on troubled
waters! What was its charm? What message did it carry from
Deborah's warm, true heart that its influence should be so
miraculous? "Miss Weeks, you have forgotten my interest in Oliver
Ostrander.
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