morning.

"I think I should like to do it, if you don't mind. We are old
friends. He always comes promptly when I call him."

She went back alone, and I waited in the doorway. When she came
out, she was smiling, and there was more color in her face.

"He is coming at once. He is always very thoughtful for me."

Now, without any warning, something that had been seething since
her breathless arrival took shape in my mind, and became--suspicion.
What if it had been Miss Emily who had called me the second time to
the telephone, and having established the connection, had waited,
breathing hard for--what?

It was fantastic, incredible in the light of that brilliant summer
day. I looked at her, dainty and exquisite as ever, her ruchings
fresh and white, her very face indicative of decorum and order,
her wistful old mouth still rather like a child's, her eyes, always
slightly upturned because of her diminutive height, so that she had
habitually a look of adoration.

"One of earth's saints," the rector had said to me on Sunday morning.
"A good woman, Miss Blakiston, and a sacrifice to an unworthy family."

Suspicion is like the rain. It falls on the just and on the unjust.
And that morning I began to suspect Miss Emily. I had no idea of
what.