Mrs.Dinneford gave a quick, anxious glance up and down the street, and then hurriedly ascended the steps and rang the bell.
"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.