“I wonder what has become of Harry lately,” he remarked, and thereupon Isabel quaked afresh and nerved herself for the worst that could possibly be said. No one seemed to know, and it was Dorothy who ventured the suggestion that possibly the superintendent’s prolonged absence and Antrim’s added responsibility were accountable. “And who may ‘Harry’ be?” inquired Kate. “Young Mr. Henry Antrim, the son of an old friend of ours in Tennessee,” Mrs. Langford explained. “He is almost a member of the family, I may say,” she added, with a glance in Isabel’s direction which was not thrown away upon the guest. The younger daughter dropped her napkin, stooped to recover it, and so had an obvious excuse for the painful flush called up by the suggestive reply. Her self-control was beginning to sag threateningly, and she gave a little sigh of relief when her father began to smooth out the morning paper. “I saw in the paper yesterday that Harry was out with the president’s car,” he said, straightening the damp sheet and unfolding it. “Let us see if----” They all looked up at the abrupt pause. The judge was sitting very straight in his chair, his thin lips compressed in two colourless lines, and a gray shadow of grief and anger spreading slowly from cheek to brow. The paper trembled a little in his hands, but he read steadily through the leaded nonpareil under the staring headlines. Mrs. Langford was the first to find speech. “Robert!” she cried. “What is it?” The judge pushed back his chair and rose stiffly, as one upon whom the palsy of old age had come suddenly. “Send William to me in the library,” he said, and his voice had in it something of the judicial sternness which had so often struck hope out of a culprit’s heart in the courtroom days. He turned away, and then he remembered the guest, and came back to apologize with grave dignity. “You must excuse me--excuse us all, Mrs. Hobart. We are in great trouble; you can see for yourself.” And he gave her the newspaper. He left the room, and Mrs. Langford followed at once. Kate looked askance at the paper, but she took it up at Dorothy’s nod. A glance at the staring headlines appalled her, but she saw that it was no time for nice distinctions in the conventional field, if she were to be of the helpers. “Shall I read it aloud?” she asked. “If you please,” Dorothy assented, slipping her arm around Isabel’s waist. So Mistress Kate read, and stopped to gasp and read again: “‘SACRIFICED TO OSIRIS! “‘WILLIAM LANGFORD AND JAMES HARDING PLAY CARDS, AND GEORGE BRANT KILLS THE WINNER!