A knock came at the door, really for the third time, although for the first time heard.  Old Sally entered, bearing her tray, with coffee.

“Now you lay right still whah you is, Ma’am,” she began.  “You-all wants a li’l bit o’ coffee.  Then I’ll bring you up some real breakfus’—­how you like yuah aigs?  Ma’am, you suttinly is lookin’ fine dis mawnin’.  I’ll fetch you yuah tub o’ watah right soon now.”

In spite of herself Josephine found herself unable to resist interest in these proceedings.  After all, her prison was not to be without its comforts.  She hoped the eggs would be more than two.

The old serving woman slowly moved about here and there in the apartment, intent upon duties of her own.  While thus engaged, Josephine, standing femininely engaged before her glass, chanced to catch sight of her in the mirror.  She had swiftly slipped over and opened the door of a wardrobe.  Over her arm now was some feminine garment.

“What have you there?” demanded Josephine, turning as swiftly.

“Jus’ some things I’se gwine take away to make room for you, tha’ss all, Ma’am.”

Josephine approached and took up in her own hands these evidences of an earlier occupancy of the room.  They were garments of a day gone by.  The silks were faded, dingy, worn in the creases from sheer disuse.  Apparently they had hung untouched for some time.

[Illustration:  They were garments of a day gone by.]

“Whose were these, Sally?” demanded Josephine.

“I dunno, Ma’am.  I’se been mos’ly in the kitchen, Ma’am.”

Josephine regarded her closely.  No sign of emotion showed on that brown mask.  The gray brows above the small eyes did not flicker.  “I suppose these may have belonged to Mr. Dunwody’s mother,” said Josephine carelessly.

“Yassam!”

“His sister?”

“Yassam!”

“Or his wife, perhaps?”

“Yassam, ef they really wuz one.”

“Was there ever?” demanded Josephine sharply.

“Might a-been none, er might a-been a dozen, fur’s I know.  Us folks don’ study much ’bout whut white folks does.”

“You must have known if there was any such person about—­you’ve been here for years.  Don’t talk nonsense!”

Temptation showed on Sally’s face.  The next instant the film came again over the small brown eyes, the mask shut down again, as the ancient negro racial secretiveness resumed sway.  Josephine did not ask for what she knew would be a lie.

“Where is my own maid, Jeanne?” she demanded.  “I am anxious about her.”

“I dunno, Ma’am.”

“Is she safe—­has she been cared for?”

“I reckon she’s all right.”

“Can you bring her to me?”

“I’ll try, Ma’am.”

But breakfast passed and no Jeanne appeared.  From the great house came no sounds of human occupancy.  Better struggle, conflict, than this ominous waiting, this silence, here in this place of infamy, this home of horror, this house of some other woman.  It was with a sense of relief that at length she heard a human voice.