When the door had shut behind Gregory, Madame von Marwitz spoke, her eyes still closed:

“Am I now permitted to rise?”

Mrs. Talcott released her ankles and stood up.

“You’ve made a pretty spectacle of yourself, Mercedes,” she remarked as Madame von Marwitz raised herself with extraordinary stateliness. “I’ve seen you behave like you were a devil before, but I never saw you behave like you were quite such a fool. What made you fight him and bite him like that? What did you expect to gain by it I’d like to know? As if you could keep that strong young man from his wife.”

Madame von Marwitz had walked to the small mirror over the mantelpiece and was adjusting her hair. Her face, reflected between a blue and gold shepherd and shepherdess holding cornucopias of dried honesty, was still ashen, but she possessed all her faculties. “This is to kill Karen,” she now said. “And yours will be the responsibility.”

“Taken,” Mrs. Talcott replied, but with no facetiousness.

Several of the large tortoiseshell pins that held Madame von Marwitz’s abundant locks were scattered on the floor. She turned and looked for them, stooped and picked them up. Then returning to the mirror she continued, awkwardly, to twist up and fasten her hair. She was unaccustomed to doing her own hair and even the few days without a maid had given her no facility.

Mrs. Talcott watched her for a moment and then remarked: “You’re getting it all screwed round to one side, Mercedes. You’d better let me do it for you.”

Madame von Marwitz for a moment made no reply. Her eyes fixed upon her own mirrored eyes, she continued to insert the pins with an air of stubborn impassivity; but when a large loop fell to her neck she allowed her arms to drop. She sank upon a chair and, still with unflawed stateliness, presented the back of her head to Mrs. Talcott’s skilful manipulations. Mrs. Talcott, in silence, wreathed and coiled and pinned and the beautiful head resumed its usual outlines.

When this was accomplished Madame von Marwitz rose. “Thank you,” she uttered. She moved towards the door of her room.

“What are you going to do now, Mercedes?” Mrs. Talcott inquired. Her eyes, which deepened and darkened, as if all her years of silent watchfulness opened long vistas in them, were fixed upon Mercedes.

“I am going to pack and return to my home,” Madame von Marwitz replied.

“Well,” said Mrs. Talcott, “you’ll want me to pack for you, I expect.”

Madame von Marwitz had opened her door and her hand was on the door-knob. She paused so and again, for a long moment, she made no reply. “Thank you,” she then repeated. But she turned and looked at Mrs. Talcott. “You have been a traitor to me,” she said after she had contemplated her for some moments, “you, in whom I completely trusted. You have ruined me in the eyes of those I love.”

“Yes, I’ve gone back on you, Mercedes, that’s a fact,” said Mrs. Talcott.

“You have handed Karen over to bondage,” Madame von Marwitz went on. “She and this man are utterly unsuited. I would have freed her and given her to a more worthy mate.” Her voice had the dignity of a disinterested and deep regret.

Mrs. Talcott made no reply. The long vistas of her eyes dwelt on Mercedes. After another moment of this mutual contemplation Madame von Marwitz closed the door, though she still kept her hand on the door-knob.

“May I ask what you have been saying of me to Mrs. Forrester, to Mr. Jardine?”

“Well, as to Mr. Jardine, Mercedes,” said Mrs. Talcott, “there was no need of saying anything, was there, if I turned out right in what I told him I suspected. He sees I’m right. He’d been fed up, along with the rest of them, on lies, and Karen can help him out with the details if he wants to ask for them. As for the old lady, I gave her the truth of the story about Karen running away. I made her see, and see straight, that your one idea was to keep Karen’s husband from getting her back because you knew that if he did the truth about you would come out. I let you down as easy as I could and put it that you weren’t responsible exactly for the things you said when you went off your head in a rage and that you were awful sorry when you found Karen had taken you at your word and made off. But that old lady feels mighty sick, Mercedes, and I allow she’ll feel sicker when she’s seen Mr. Jardine. As for Miss Scrotton, I saw her, too, and she’s come out strong; you’ve got a friend there, Mercedes, sure; she won’t believe anything against her beloved Mercedes,” a dry smile touched Mrs. Talcott’s grave face as she echoed Miss Scrotton’s phraseology, “until she hears from her own lips what she has to say in explanation of the story. You’ll be able to fix her up all right, Mercedes, and most of the others, too, I expect. I’d advise you to lie low for a while and let it blow over. People are mighty glad to be given the chance for forgetting things against anyone like you. It’ll simmer down and work out, I expect, to a bad quarrel you had with Karen that’s parted you. And as for the outside world, why it won’t mind a mite what you do. Why you can murder your grandmother and eat her, I expect, and the world’ll manage to overlook it, if you’re a genius.”

“I thank you,” said Madame von Marwitz, her hand clasping and unclasping the door-knob. “I thank you indeed for your reassurance. I have murdered and eaten my grandmother, but I am to escape hanging because I am a genius. That is a most gratifying piece of information. You, personally, I infer, consider that the penalty should be paid, however gifted the criminal.”

“I don’t know, Mercedes, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Talcott in a voice of profound sadness. “I don’t know who deserves penalties and who don’t, if you begin to argue it out to yourself.” Mrs. Talcott, who had seated herself at the other side of the table, laid an arm upon it, looking before her and not at Mercedes, as she spoke. “You’re a bad woman; that ain’t to be denied. You’re a bad, dangerous woman, and perhaps what you’ve been trying to do now is the worst thing you’ve ever done. But I guess I’m way past feeling angry at anything you do. I guess I’m way past wanting you to get come up with. I can’t make out how to think about a person like you. Maybe you figured it all out to yourself different from the way it looks. Maybe you persuaded yourself to believe that Karen would be better off apart from her husband. I guess that’s the way with most criminals, don’t you? They figure things out different from the way other people do. I expect you can’t help it. I expect you were born so. And I guess you can’t change. Some bad folks seem to manage to get religion and that brings ’em round; but I expect you ain’t that kind.”

Madame von Marwitz, while Mrs. Talcott thus shared her psychological musings with her, was not looking at the old woman: her eyes were fixed on the floor and she seemed to consider.

“No,” she said presently. “I am not that kind.”

She raised her eyes and they met Mrs. Talcott’s. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

“Well,” said Mrs. Talcott, drawing a long sigh of fatigue, “I’ve been thinking that over and I guess I’ll stay over here. There ain’t any place for me in America now; all my folks are dead. You know that money my Uncle Adam left me a long time ago that I bought the annuity with. Well, I’ve saved most of that annuity; I’d always intended that Karen should have what I’d saved when I died. But Karen don’t need it now. It’ll buy me a nice little cottage somewhere and I can settle down and have a garden and chickens and live on what I’ve got.”

“How much was it, the annuity?” Madame von Marwitz asked after a moment.

“A hundred and ten pounds a year,” said Mrs. Talcott.

“But you cannot live on that,” Madame von Marwitz, after another moment, said.

“Why, gracious sakes, of course I can, Mercedes,” Mrs. Talcott replied, smiling dimly.

Again there was silence and then Madame von Marwitz said, in a voice a little forced: “You have not got much out of life, have you, Tallie?”

“Well, no; I don’t expect you would say as I had,” Mrs. Talcott acquiesced, showing a slight surprise.

“You haven’t even got me now have you,” Madame von Marwitz went on, looking down at her door-knob and running her hand slowly round it while she spoke. “Not even the criminal. But that is a gain, you feel, no doubt, rather than a loss.”

“No, Mercedes,” said Mrs. Talcott mildly; “I don’t feel that way. I feel it’s a loss, I guess. You see you’re all the family I’ve got left.”

“And you,” said Madame von Marwitz, still looking down at her knob, “are all the family I have left.”

Mrs. Talcott now looked at her. Mercedes did not raise her eyes. Her face was sad and very pale and it had not lost its stateliness. Mrs. Talcott looked at her for what seemed to be a long time and the vistas of her eyes deepened with a new acceptance.

It was without any elation and yet without any regret that she said in her mild voice: “Do you want me to come back with you, Mercedes?”

“Will you?” Madame von Marwitz asked in a low voice.

“Why, yes, of course I’ll come if you want me, Mercedes,” said Mrs. Talcott.

Madame von Marwitz now opened her door. “Thank you, Tallie,” she said.

“You look pretty tired,” Mrs. Talcott, following her into the bedroom, remarked. “You’d better lie down and take a rest while I do the packing. Let’s clear out as soon as we can.”