recognize the loftiness of her spirit and the generous nature of her
impulses. In person she was tall and as she leaned to take Violet's
hand, the difference between them brought out the salient points in
each, to the great admiration of the one onlooker.

Meantime, for all her interest in the case in hand, Violet could not
help casting a hurried look about her, in gratification of the curiosity
incited by her entrance into a house signalized from its foundation by
such a series of tragic events. The result was disappointing. The walls
were plain, the furniture simple. Nothing suggestive in either, unless
it was the fact that nothing was new, nothing modern. As it looked in
the days of Burr and Hamilton so it looked to-day, even to the rather
startling detail of candles which did duty on every side in place of
gas.

As Violet recalled the reason for this, the fascination of the past
seized upon her imagination. There was no knowing where this might have
carried her, had not the feverish gleam in Miss Digby's eyes warned
her that the present held its own excitement. Instantly, she was all
attention and listening with undivided mind to that lady's disclosures.

They were brief and to the following effect:

The dinner which had brought some half-dozen people together in this
house had been given in celebration of her impending marriage. But it
was also in a way meant as a compliment to one of the other guests, a
Mr. Spielhagen, who, during the week, had succeeded in demonstrating to
a few experts the value of a discovery he had made which would transform
a great industry.

In speaking of this discovery, Miss Digby did not go into particulars,
the whole matter being far beyond her understanding; but in stating its
value she openly acknowledged that it was in the line of Mr. Cornell's
own work, and one which involved calculations and a formula which, if
prematurely disclosed, would invalidate the contract Mr. Spielhagen
hoped to make, and thus destroy his present hopes.

Of this formula but two copies existed. One was locked up in a safe
deposit vault in Boston, the other he had brought into the house on
his person, and it was the latter which was now missing, having been
abstracted during the evening from a manuscript of sixteen or more
sheets, under circumstances which she would now endeavour to relate.

Mr. Van Broecklyn, their host, had in his melancholy life but one
interest which could be at all absorbing. This