"He showed you my locket," Emily answered.
"Oh, the horrid reminder of the murder!" Mrs. Rook exclaimed. "_I_ didn't mention it: don't blame Me. You poor innocent, I have something dreadful to tell you."
Emily's horror of the woman forced her to speak. "Don't tell me!" she cried. "I know more than you suppose; I know what I was ignorant of when you saw the locket."
Mrs. Rook took offense at the interruption.
"Clever as you are, there's one thing you don't know," she said. "You asked me, just now, who the pocketbook belonged to. It belonged to your father. What's the matter? Are you crying?"
Emily was thinking of her father. The pocketbook was the last present she had given to him--a present on his birthday. "Is it lost?" she asked sadly.
"No; it's not lost. You will hear more of it directly. Dry your eyes, and expect something interesting--I'm going to talk about love. Love, my dear, means myself. Why shouldn't it? I'm not the only nice-looking woman, married to an old man, who has had a lover."
"Wretch! what has that got to do with it?"