“To get hold of her.” Mrs. Grose⁠—her eyes just lingering on mine⁠—gave a shudder and walked to the window; and while she stood there looking out I completed my statement. “ That’s what Flora knows.”

After a little she turned round. “The person was in black, you say?”

“In mourning⁠—rather poor, almost shabby. But⁠—yes⁠—with extraordinary beauty.” I now recognized to what I had at last, stroke by stroke, brought the victim of my confidence, for she quite visibly weighed this. “Oh, handsome⁠—very, very,” I insisted; “wonderfully handsome. But infamous.”

She slowly came back to me. “Miss Jessel⁠— was infamous.” She once more took my hand in both her own, holding it as tight as if to fortify me against the increase of alarm I might draw from this disclosure. “They were both infamous,” she finally said.