"Something wrong?" asked the nurse, detecting a change in her
mistress's face.
The question passed unheeded. Mrs. Milroy's writing-desk was
on the table at the bedside. She took from it the letter which
the major's mother had written to her son, and turned to the page
containing the name and address of Miss Gwilt's reference. "Mrs
Mandeville, 18 Kingsdown Crescent, Bayswater," she read, eagerly
to herself, and then looked at the address on her own returned
letter. No error had been committed: the directions were
identically the same.
"Something wrong?" reiterated the nurse, advancing a step nearer
to the bed.
"Thank God--yes!" cried Mrs. Milroy, with a sudden outburst of
exultation. She tossed the Post-office circular to the nurse,
and beat her bony hands on the bedclothes in an ecstasy of
anticipated triumph. "Miss Gwilt's an impostor! Miss Gwilt's an
impostor! If I die for it, Rachel, I'll be carried to the window
to see the police take her away!"
"It's one thing to say she's an impostor behind her back, and
another thing to prove it to her face," remarked the nurse. She
put her hand as she spoke into her apron pocket, and, with a
significant look at her mistress, silently produced a second
letter.
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