een took refuge in her headache. "I don't know," she said
wearily; "perhaps not to-day."

"Oh, well, never mind. I dare say I can manage," Mrs. Mellen assured
her. "If you've got everything you want, I'll have to go. Do you think
you'll be able to get down to dinner--seven, you know; or would you
rather have a plate of nice hot soup up here? Here, I guess. Well, it's
no trouble at all, and you're right to starve your head; it's what I
always do."

She backed smiling out of the door, which she closed gently.

Mrs. Marteen lay back with closed eyes for a moment, then restlessness
seizing her, she sat bolt upright and firmly held her own pulse. "I'm
certainly ill," she said aloud. "I wonder where Marie is? Of course I
left her at the station, and told her to bring the baggage on. But that
was long ago; what has kept her? But this isn't my home," she argued to
herself. She was too weak to trouble with further questioning.
Instinctively she put out her hand and drew the newspaper toward her.
She raised it idly.

"Murder of Victor Mahr"--the big headlines met her eyes.

She felt a shock as if a blinding flash of lightning had enveloped her;
she remembered.

She sat as if turned to stone, staring at the ominous words. Her nerves
tingled from head to foot; her very life seemed a strained and vibrating
string that might snap with any breath. Slowly, as if the Fates had
decided not as yet to break that attenuated thread, the tingling,
stinging shock passed. She found strength to read the whole article,
almost intelligently, though at times her mind would wander to
inconsequent things, and the beat of her own heart seemed to deaden her
understanding. She remembered now everything, nearly everything, till
she turned from her own door, a desperate, homeless outcast. She
recalled a cab going somewhere, and then after what appeared to be an
interval of unconsciousness, she was walking, walking, instinctively
seeking the darkened streets, a satchel in her hand. Somewhere, footsore
and exhausted, she had sat upon a bench. Then came the inspiration to go
to the quiet house where her friend had stayed. The friend was far away;
she could remain there and not be found--stay until she had courage to
do the thing that had suggested itself as the only issue--to end it all.

But who had killed Victor Mahr? She gave a gasp of horror and held up
her hands--was there blood upon them? But how--how? Try as she would, no
answering picture of