that it was of some local
importance, and hope revived somewhat in her sorrowing heart at the
impression that perhaps, after all, it was better she had failed in
finding work at the bindery.

Notwithstanding the charming simplicity of her nature, Winifred would
not be a woman if she did not know she was good-looking. The stage
offered a career; work in the factory only yielded existence. Recent
events had added a certain strength of character to her sweet face; and
Miss Goodman, who happened to be an expert dressmaker, had used the
girl's leisure in her lodgings to turn her nimble fingers to account.
Hence, Winifred was dressed with neat elegance, and the touch of winter
keenness in the air gave her a splendid color as she hurried out of the
station many minutes late for her appointment.

Would she be asked to sing, she wondered? She had no music with her, and
had never touched a piano since her music-master's anxiety to train her
voice had been so suddenly frustrated by Rachel Craik. But she knew many
of the solos from "Faust," "Rigoletto," and "Carmen"; surely, among
musical people, there would be some appreciation of her skill if tested
by this class of composition, as compared with the latest rag-time
melody or gushing cabaret ballad.

Busy with such thoughts, she hastened along the road, until she awoke
with a start to the knowledge that she was opposite Gateway House.
Certainly the retreat was admirable from the point of view of a man
surfeited with life on the Great White Way. Indeed, it looked very like
a private lunatic asylum or home for inebriates, with its lofty walls
studded with broken glass, and its solid gate crowned with iron spikes.

Winifred tried the door. It opened readily. She was surprised that so
pretentious an abode had no lodge-keeper's cottage. There were signs of
few vehicles passing over the weed-grown gravel drive, and such marks as
existed were quite recent.

She was so late, however, that her confused mind did not trouble about
these things, and she sped on gracefully, soon coming in full view of
the house itself. It was now almost dark, and the grounds seemed very
lonely; but the presence of lights in the secluded mansion gave earnest
of some one awaiting her there. She fancied she heard a noise, like the
snapping of a latch or lock behind her. She turned her head, but saw no
one. Fowle, hiding among the evergreens, had run with nimble feet and
sardonic smile to bolt the gate as soo