casion to
require it frequently. It is like the purloined letter in Edgar Poe's
wonderful story."

Margaret Henson nodded and mumbled. It seemed almost impossible to make
her understand. She babbled of strange things, with her dark eyes ever
fixed on the future. Enid turned away almost despairingly. At the same
time the stable clock struck the half-hour after ten. Williams slipped
in with a tray of glasses, noiselessly. On the tray lay a small pile of
tradesmen's books. The top one was of dull red with no lettering upon
it at all.

"The housekeeper's respectful compliments, miss, and would you go through
them to-morrow?" Williams said. He tapped the top book significantly.
"To-morrow is the last day of the month."

Enid picked up the top book with strange eagerness. There were pages of
figures and cabalistic entries that no ordinary person could make
anything of. Pages here and there were signed and decorated with pink
receipt stamps. Enid glanced down the last column, and her face grew a
little paler.

"Aunt," she whispered, "I've got to go out. At once; do you understand?
There is a message here; and I am afraid that something dreadful has
happened. Can you sing?"

"Ah, yes; a song of lamentation--a dirge for the dead."

"No, no; seven years ago you had a lovely voice. I recollect what a
pleasure it was to me as a child; and they used to say that my voice
was very like yours, only not so sweet or so powerful. Aunt, I must go
out; and that man must know nothing about it. He is by the window in
the small library now, watching--watching. Help me, for the love of
Heaven, help me."

The girl spoke with a fervency and passion that seemed to waken a
responsive chord in Margaret Henson's breast. A brighter gleam crept
into her eyes.

"You are a dear girl," she said, dreamily; "yes, a dear girl. And I loved
singing; it was a great grief to me that they would not let me go upon
the stage. But I haven't sung since--since _that_--"

She pointed to the huddled heap of china and glass and dried, dusty
flowers in one corner. Ethel [Updater's note: Enid?] shuddered slightly
as she followed the direction of the extended forefinger.

"But you must try," she whispered. "It is for the good of the family, for
the recovery of the secret. Reginald Henson is sly and cruel and clever.
But we have one on our side now who is far more clever. And, unless I can
get away to-night without that man knowing, the chance may be lost for
e