“I want to see Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper,” said Ross. “You ought to go to the back door!” she remarked sharply. “You ought to know that much!” Ross did not like this, but it was not his habit to let his temper override discretion. “All right!” he said, and was turning away, ready to go to the back door, ready to go anywhere, so that he accomplished his mission, when the housemaid relented. “As long as you’re here, you can come in,” she said. “This way!” He followed her across a wide hall, with a polished floor and a fine old stairway rising from it, to a door at the farther end. “It’s the room right in front of you when you get to the top,” she explained. She opened the door; he went in, she closed the door behind him, and he found himself in what seemed a pitch-black cupboard. But, as he moved forward, his foot struck against a step, and he began cautiously to mount a narrow, boxed-in staircase, until his outstretched hand touched a door. He pushed it open, and found himself in a well lighted corridor, and, facing him, a white painted door. And behind that door he heard some one sobbing, in a low, wailing voice. He stopped, rather at a loss. Then, because he would not go back, he went forward, and knocked. “Who is it?” cried a voice. “I came to see Mrs. Jones,” Ross replied casually. There was a moments silence; then the door was opened by the loveliest creature he had ever seen in his life. He had only a glimpse of her, of an exquisite face, very white, with dark and delicate brows and great black eyes, a face childlike in its soft, pure contours, but terribly unchildlike in its expression of terror and despair. “Wait!” she said. “Go in and wait!” She brushed past him, with a flutter of her filmy gray dress and a breath of some faint fragrance, and vanished down the back stairs. Ross went in as he was instructed, and stood facing the door, waiting with a certain uneasiness for some one to come. But nobody did come, and at last he turned and looked about him. It was a cozy room, with a cheerful red carpet on the floor, and plenty of solid, old-fashioned walnut furniture about; it was well warmed by a steam radiator, and well lighted by an alabaster electrolier in the ceiling; a clock ticked smartly on the mantelpiece, and on the sofa lay a big yellow cat, pretending to be asleep, with one gleaming eye half open. It was such a thoroughly commonplace and comfortable room that the young man felt reassured. He decided to ignore the wailing voice he had heard, and the pallid, lovely creature who had opened the door. For all he knew, such things might be quite usual in this household, and, anyhow, it was none of his business. He had come to see Mrs. Jones, and to explain an error. He watched the smart little clock for five minutes, and then began to grow restless. He had walked a good deal this day; he was tired; his shoes were wet; he wanted to be done with this business and to get away. Another five minutes—