"I am called Madame Cerise, if it please you."

Her voice, while softened to an extent by the French accent, was
nevertheless harsh and emotionless. She spoke as an automaton, slowly,
and pausing to choose her words. The woman was of medium size, slim and
straight in spite of many years. Her skin resembled brown parchment; her
eyes were small, black and beady; her nose somewhat fleshy and her lips
red and full as those of a young girl. The age of Madame Cerise might be
anywhere between fifty and seventy; assuredly she had long been a
stranger to youth, although her dark hair was but slightly streaked with
gray. She wore a somber-hued gown and a maid's jaunty apron and cap.

Louise inspected her closely, longing to find a friend and protector in
this curious and strange woman. Her eyes were moist and pleading--an
appeal hard to resist. But Madame Cerise returned her scrutiny with a
wholly impassive expression.

"You are a French maid?" asked Louise, softly.

"A housekeeper, ma'm'selle. For a time, a caretaker."

"Ah, I understand. Are your employers asleep?"

"I cannot say, ma'm'seile. They are not here."

"You are alone in this house?"

"Alone with you, ma'm'seile."