r wits' end,
had given herself an amazing amount of unnecessary trouble. Her flight had
not been noticed till the maid had entered her room at half-past eight. She
had obviously packed up some things in a handbag. Obviously again she had
caught the eight-fifteen train from Ripstead, as she had done once or twice
before when rehearsals or other theatrical business had required an early
arrival in London. Septimus's telegram had not only allayed no
apprehension, but it had aroused a mild curiosity. Septimus was master of
his own actions. His going up to London was no one's concern. If he were
starting for the Equator a telegram would have been a courtesy. But why
announce his arrival in London? Why couple it with Emmy's? And why in the
name of guns and musical comedies should Zora worry? But when she reflected
that Septimus did nothing according to the orthodox ways of men, she
attributed the superfluous message to his general infirmity of character,
smiled indulgently, and dismissed the matter from her mind. Mrs. Oldrieve
had nothing to dismiss, as she had been led to believe that Emmy had gone
up to London by the morning train. She only bewailed the flighty
inconsequence of modern young women, until she reflected that Emmy's father
had gone and come with disconcerting unexpectedness from the day of their
wedding to that of his death on the horns of a buffalo; whereupon she
fatalistically attributed her daughter's ways to heredity. So while the two
incapables were sedulously covering up their tracks, the most placid
indifference as to their whereabouts reigned in Nunsmere.

The telegram, therefore, announcing their marriage found Zora entirely
unprepared for the news it contained. What a pitiful tragedy lay behind the
words she was a million miles from suspecting. She walked with her head
above such clouds, her eyes on the stars, taking little heed of the
happenings around her feet--and, if the truth is to be known, finding
mighty little instruction or entertainment in the firmament. The elopement,
for it was nothing more, brought her eyes, however, earthwards. "Why?" she
asked, not realizing it to be the most futile of questions when applied to
human actions. To every such "Why?" there are a myriad answers. When a
mysterious murder is committed, everyone seeks the motive. Unless
circumstance unquestionably provides the key of the enigma, who can tell?
It may be revenge for the foulest of wrongs. It may be that the assassi