expected occurrences.

He followed her without ceremony.

The old lady lay as before in a condition between sleeping and waking,
and did not move as they came in. Mr. Gryce at once withdrew out of
sight, and, with finger on his lip, put himself in the attitude of
waiting. Miss Firman, surprised, and possibly curious, took her stand
at the foot of the bed.

A few minutes passed thus, during which a strange dreariness seemed to
settle upon the room; then the old lady spoke again, this time repeating
the words he had first heard, but in a tone which betrayed an increased
perplexity.

"_Was_ it Clemmens or _was_ it Orcutt? I wish somebody would tell me."

Instantly Mr. Gryce, with his soft tread, drew near to the old lady's
side, and, leaning over her, murmured gently:

"I think it was Orcutt."

Instantly the old lady breathed a deep sigh and moved.

"Then her name was Mrs. Orcutt," said she, "and I thought you always
called her Clemmens."

Miss Firman, recoiling, stared at Mr. Gryce, on whose cheek a faint spot
of red had appeared--a most unusual token of emotion with him.

"Did she say it was Mrs. Orcutt," he pursued, in the even tones he had
before used.

"She said----" But here the old lady opened her eyes, and, seeing her
daughter standing at the foot of her bed, turned away with a peevish
air, and restlessly pushed her hand under the pillow.

Mr. Gryce at once bent nearer.

"She said----" he suggested, with careful gentleness.

But the old lady made no answer. Her hand seemed to have touched some
object for which she was seeking, and she was evidently oblivious to all
else. Miss Firman came around and touched Mr. Gryce on the shoulder.

"It is useless," said she; "she is awake now, and you won't hear any
thing more; come!"

And she drew the reluctant detective back again into the other room.

"What does it all mean?" she asked, sinking into a chair.

Mr. Gryce did not answer. He had a question of his own to put.

"Why did your mother put her hand under her pillow?" he asked.

"I don't know, unless it was to see if her big envelope was there."

"Her big envelope?"

"Yes; for weeks now, ever since she took to her bed, she has kept a
paper in a big envelope under her pillow. What is in it I don't know,
for she never seems to hear me when I inquire."

"And have you no curiosity to find out?"

"No, sir. Why should I? It might easily be my father's old letters
sealed up, or, for that matter, be