"Some one who knows you well, who knows the child well, dropped the
wrong shoe into the river."
A murmur, nothing more, from Mrs. Ocumpaugh's set lips.
"Could it--I do not say that it was--I don't see any reason why it
should be--but could it have been Mrs. Carew?"
Not a sound this time, not a sound.
"She was down at the dock that night. Did you know it?"
A gesture, but whether of assent or dissent I could not tell.
"We know of no other person who was there but the men employed."
"_What do you know?_"
With all her restraint gone--a suffering and despairing woman, Mrs.
Ocumpaugh was on her knees, grasping my arm with both hands.
"Quit this torture! tell me that you know it all and leave me
to--to--die!"
"Madam!"
I was confounded; and as I looked at her face, strained back in wild
appeal, I was more than confounded, I was terrified.
"Madam, what does this mean? Are you--you--"
"Lock the door!" she cried; "no one must come in here now. I have said
so much that I must say more. Listen and be my friend; oh, be my
friend! _Those were my footsteps you saw in the bungalow. It was I who
carried Gwendolen into that secret hole._"