Herne," she murmured. "In spite of her gray hair
she looks quite young. She does not walk as an old woman. She
confessed to being over fifty. To be sure, I saw her only
once."
Mrs. Octagon grew rather cross. "I am over fifty, and I'm
sure I don't look old, you undutiful child. When the soul is
young, what matters the house of clay. But, as I was saying,"
she added hastily, not choosing to talk of her age, which was
a tender point with her, "Selina Loach likes low company. I
know nothing of Mrs. Herne, but what you say of her does not
sound refined."
"Oh, she is quite a lady."
"And as to Mr. Clancy and Mr. Jarvey Hale," added Mrs.
Octagon, taking no notice, "I mistrust them. That Hale man
looked as though he would do a deed of darkness on the
slightest provocation."
So tragic was her mother's manner, that Juliet turned even
paler than she was. "Whatever do you mean?" she asked
quickly.
"I mean murder, if I must use so vulgar and melodramatic a
word."
"But I don't understand--"
"Bless me," cried Mrs. Octagon, becoming more prosaic than
ever, "there is nothing to understand. But Selina lives in
quite a lonely house, and has a lot of money. I never open
the papers but what I expect to read of her death by
violence."
"Oh," murmured Juliet, again crossing to the window, "you
should not talk like that, mother!"
Mrs. Octagon laughed good-naturedly. "Nonsense, child. I am
only telling you my thoughts.
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