She kept her message to the end of her visit, and delivered her blow
standing.
"I have something I ought to tell you, Elizabeth. But I don't know how
you'll take it."
"Maybe it's something I won't want to hear."
"I'll tell you, if you won't say where you heard it."
But Elizabeth made a small, impatient gesture. "I don't like secrets,
Clare. I can't keep them, for one thing. You'd better not tell me."
Clare was nearly balked of her revenge, but not entirely.
"All right," she said, and prepared to depart. "I won't. But you might
just find out from your friend Mrs. Sayre who it was she saw in Chicago
this week."
It was in this manner, bit by bit and each bit trivial, that the case
against Dick was built up for Elizabeth. Mrs. Sayre, helpless before her
quiet questioning, had to acknowledge one damning thing after another.
He had known her; he had not asked for Elizabeth, but only for David;
he looked tired and thin, but well. She stood at the window watching
Elizabeth go down the hill, with a feeling that she had just seen
something die before her.