ft, mysterious music coming from somewhere
inside the room, music familiar and yet unnatural, a song she had heard
once before, a pathetic folk-song of eastern Europe, "More Was Lost at
Mohacksfield." It was a tale of love and loss and tragedy and despair.

Startled and overcome, she had swayed, and would have fallen, but that
with an effort of the will she had caught at the table and saved
herself. With the music still creeping in unutterable melancholy
through the room, she had fled, closing the door behind her very softly
as though not to disturb the sleeper. It had followed her down the
staircase and into the street, the weird, unnatural music.

It was only when she had entered a cab in the Strand that she realized
exactly what the music was. She remembered that Fellowes had bought a
music-box which could be timed to play at will--even days ahead, and he
had evidently set the box to play at this hour. It did so, a strange,
grim commentary on the stark thing lying on the couch, nerveless as
though it had been dead a thousand years. It had ceased to play before
Stafford entered the room, but, strangely enough, it began again as he
said over the dead body, "He did not die by his own hand."

Standing before the fireplace in the drawing-room, awaiting the first
guest, Jasmine said to herself: "No, no, he had not the courage to kill
himself."

Some one had killed him. Who was it? Who killed him--Rudyard--Ian--who?
But how? There was no sign of violence. That much she had seen. He lay
like one asleep. Who was it killed him?

"Lady Tynemouth."

Back to the world from purgatory again. The butler's voice broke the
spell, and Lady Tynemouth took her friend in her arms and kissed her.

"So handsome you look, my darling--and all in white. White violets,
too. Dear, dear, how sweet, and oh, how triste! But I suppose it's
chic. Certainly, it is stunning. And so simple. Just the weeny, teeny
string of pearls, like a young under-secretary's wife, to show what she
might do if she had a fair chance. Oh, you clever, wonderful Jasmine!"

"My dressmaker says I have no real taste in colours, so I compromised,"
was Jasmine's reply, with a really good imitation of a smile.

As she babbled on, Lady Tynemouth had been eyeing her friend with swift
inquiry, for she had never seen Jasmine look as she did to-night, so
ethereal, so tragically ethereal, with dark lines under the eyes, the
curious transparency of the skin, and the feverish b