There was no sound, but only tears and a lump in her throat.
The suspicion of Mary Conyngham, planted by Mabelle in the mind of Emma, lay there for days, flourishing upon fertile soil until at last it took on the sturdy form of reality and truth. In her pain at Philip's coldness toward her and in her anger at the spectacle of an existence which had become as disorderly and unmanageable as her own house during Naomi's presence in it, the thought of Mary Conyngham seldom left her. It burned her mind as she sat behind the cash-register, while she lay in bed at night alone in the house she had meant always to be Philip's house. It gave her no peace. What right, she asked herself, had Mary Conyngham to steal her boy? Bit by bit, she built up the story from that one shred of gossip dropped by Mabelle.
She saw now that the name of Mary Conyngham explained everything. Mary had never gone to church, and perhaps hadn't any faith in God, and so she had aggravated Philip's strange behavior. It was probably Mary or the thought of her, that put into Philip's head that fantastic idea of going to work in the Mills, in a place which had nearly cost him his life. She must have seen him almost every day. Why, she was even friendly with the Polacks and Dagoes. Who could say what things she hadn't been guilty of down there in the Flats, where no decent person ever went? There was probably truth in the story that Irene Shane slept with that big Russian—what was his name—who had had the boldness to come to the very door when Philip was ill. No, all
