voice was heard through the open transom of the door behind which
her thoughts were already concentrated.

"Where is Tom? Oh, where is Tom? Why does he leave me? I'm afraid of
what he may be tempted to do or say down on those great piazzas alone."

"Mr. Poindexter is with him," answered a voice, measured, but kind. "Mr.
Adams was getting very tired, and your father persuaded him to go down
and have a smoke."

"I must get up; indeed I must get up. Oh! the camphor--the----"

There was a bustle; this poor young wife had evidently fainted again.

Miss Butterworth cast very miserable glances at the door.

Meanwhile in that small and retired smoking-room a terrible scene was in
progress. The two gentlemen had lit their cigars and were sitting in
certain forced attitudes that evinced their non-enjoyment of the weed
each had taken out of complaisance to the other, when an old man,
strangely serious, strangely at home, yet as strangely a guest of the
house like themselves, came in, and shut the door behind him.

"Gentlemen," he at once announced, "I am Detective Gryce of the New York
police, and I am here--but I see that one of you at least knows why I am
here."

One? Both of them! This was evident in a moment. No denial, no
subterfuge was possible. At the first word uttered in the strange,
authoritative tone which old detectives acquire after years of such
experiences, the young man sank down in sudden collapse, while his
companion, without yielding so entirely to his emotions, showed that he
was not insensible to the blow which, in one moment, had brought
destruction to all their hopes.

When Mr. Gryce saw himself so completely understood, he no longer
hesitated over his duty. Directing his full attention to Mr. Adams, he
said, this time with some feeling, for the misery of this young man had
impressed him:

"You are wanted in New York by Coroner D----, whose business it is to
hold an inquest over the remains of Mr. Felix Adams, of whose
astonishing death you are undoubtedly informed. As you and your wife
were seen leaving that gentleman's house a few minutes before he
expired, you are naturally regarded as valuable witnesses in determining
whether his death was one of suicide or murder."

It was an accusation, or so nearly one, that Mr. Gryce was not at all
surprised to behold the dark flush of shame displace the livid terror
which but an instant before had made the man before him look like one of
those lost spi