She entered the park, forcing her failing strength to one supreme
effort, and sank, gasping, upon a bench. It faced toward the darkened
residence of the murdered man. A few stragglers stood grouped on the
pavement before the house, of asked questions of the policeman stationed
near by. The electric lights threw lace patterns that wavered over the
unfrequented paths. She leaned back, staring at the dark bulk of the
mansion with the darker streak at the doorway, which one divined to be
the sinister mark of death. Suddenly she sat erect, her aching weariness
forgotten. She knew, past peradventure, that _she had sat there upon
that very seat the night before_. The memory was but a flash. Already
delirium was returning. She was powerless to move. Hours passed, and
still she sat staring, unseeing, straight before her. Once a policeman
passed and turned to look at her, but her evident refinement quieted his
suspicions, and he moved on.

She was roused at last by a movement of the bench as someone took a
place beside her. She looked up and vaguely realized that it was a
woman, darkly dressed and heavily veiled like herself. She, too, leaned
back and seemed lost in contemplation of the house opposite. Presently
she raised the veil, as if it obstructed her vision too greatly,
revealing a withered face, narrow and long, with a singularly white
skin. She had the look of a respectable working woman, and her
black-gloved hands were folded over a neat paper package. Her curious
glance turned toward the lady beside her, and seemed to find
satisfaction in the elegance that even the darkness could not quite
conceal. She moved nearer, and with a birdlike twist of the head, leaned
forward and frankly gazed in her companion's face. The other did not
resent the action.

The woman slowly nodded her head. "Don't know what she's doin', not she.