ith shrinkin', apologizin' ways and a set of store teeth
that didn't fit any too well; but she wa'n't one that you'd suspect of
anything more tragic than eatin' maraschino cherries on the sly, or
swappin' household gossip with the cook.

That wa'n't the way Martha had her sized up, though, and of course there
was no keepin' her inquisitive nose out of the case. First thing anyone
knew, she'd backed Madame Roulaire into a corner, put her through the
third degree, and come trottin' back in triumph to Mrs. Pinckney.

"Didn't I tell you?" says she. "French! Bosh! Perhaps you haven't asked
her about Auberge-sur-Mer, where she says she was born?"

Greraldine admits that she ain't done much pumpin'.

"Well, I have," says Aunt Martha, "and she couldn't tell me a thing about
the place that was so. I spent ten days there only two years ago, and
remember it perfectly. She isn't any more French than I am."

"Oh, what of it?" says Mrs. Pinckney. "She gets along splendidly with the
twins. They think the world of her."

"But she's thoroughly deceitful," Aunt Martha comes back. "She
misrepresents her age, lies about her birthplace, and--and she wears a
transformation wig."

"Yes, I had noticed the brown wig," admits Mrs. Pinckney; "but they're
quite common."

"So are women poisoners," snaps Martha. "Think of what happened to the
Briggses, after they took in that strange maid! Then there was the Madame
Catossi case, over in Florence last year. They were warned about her, you
remember."

And maybe you know how a good lively suspecter can get results when she
keeps followin' it up. They got to watchin' the governess close when she
was around, and noticin' all the little slips in her talk and the
crab-like motions she made in dodgin' strangers. That appears to make her
worse than ever, too. She'd get fussed every time anyone looked her way,
and just some little question about the children would make her jump and
color up like she'd been accused of burnin' a barn. Even Sadie, who'd
been standin' up for her right along, begins to weaken.

"After all," says she, "I'm not sure there isn't something queer about
that woman."

"Ah, all governesses are queer, ain't they?" says I; "but that ain't any
sign they've done time or are in the habit of dosin' the coffeepot with
arsenic. It's Aunt Martha has stirred all this mess up, and she'd make
the angel Gabriel prove who he was by blowin' bugle calls."

It was only next day, though, that