n minutes; is it yes?_)"

Miss Scarlett nodded, and Brassfield moved on. Mrs. Pumphrey, Mrs.
Hunter and Elizabeth Waldron were sipping punch.

"May I have some?" said he. "And, please, Mrs. Pumphrey, may I be
presented to the guest of the evening?"

Mrs. Hunter received the introduction with a gasp.

"Is it possible," said she, "that you don't know me? Can the possessor
of that voice and face be any one but Florian Amidon?"

"Amidon, Amidon?" he repeated. "Pardon me, but some one else spoke
that name to me lately, and I was trying to recall the circumstances.
It is in every way on my part to be regretted, as the fact has deprived
me of the happiness of knowing you, that I am not Mr. Amidon. Am I so
like him?"

"Oh, it isn't a matter of resemblance, but of identity!" replied Mrs.
Hunter. "Were you never in Hazelhurst, Wisconsin?"

"Never," said Mr. Brassfield; "but I am beginning to see its beauties
as a place of residence. And I hope to know more of this other Dromio
before the evening is past."

Mrs. Hunter bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment, and Mr.
Brassfield took himself gracefully from their presence. In the fashion
of one pressed for time, he moved on.

Elizabeth had grown suddenly very grave. What did this conduct of her
lover mean? A little while ago he had recognized Mrs. Hunter, at a
distance, as an old acquaintance. Now he had audaciously outfaced her,
and denied that he ever knew her. Could this be the man she had
trusted with her all? Again her doubts and fears and scruples
rose--rose instantly in full strength. The new impressions she had
lately received of him vanished, and all the subtle suggestions of
sordid lightness which the diplomacy of Brassfield, even, had not
entirely kept from her mind, came back with multiplied distinctness.
These transformations of character, these curious duplicities, and now
this lie. She must think it over: it impressed her, and she must act.

"Auntie," said she, "let us go."

As down the stairway they came, robed for departure, they were
conscious of a hum of excitement running through the assembly.

"Where is he? The envelope has been opened and the time is up! Where
is he?" were the cries. "It's eleven: it's a minute past eleven!
Where's Mr. Brassfield?"

At this moment, a scream, a soprano scream, high, long-drawn and
piercing, the scream of a woman in terror, came echoing from the
deserted east room. A body of guests rushed thr