Holymead's voice rose almost to a cry. "Oh, what are we
to do? Did he come to arrest--"
"No, no! He was not so bad. He did not come to do dreadful things, but
just to have a little talk.''
"A little talk? What about?"
"He wanted to see you, and ask you one or two little questions. I put
him off. He was like wax in my hands. Pouf! He has gone, so why trouble?"
"But he will come again! He is sure to come again!"
"No doubt. He says he will come again--in a week--when you return."
Mrs. Holymead wrung her hands helplessly.
"What are we to do then?" she wailed.
"We will look the tragedy in the face when it comes. _Ma foi!_ What have
you been doing to yourself? For nothing is it worth to look like _that_."
With deft and loving fingers Gabrielle began to arrange Mrs. Holymead's
hair. "We will have everything right before this little police agent
returns. We will show him he is the complete fool for suspecting you know
about the murder."
"But what can you do, Gabrielle?" asked Mrs. Holymead.
She looked at Gabrielle with her large brown eyes, as though she were
utterly dependent on the other's stronger will for support and
assistance.
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