“Oh, Tim!” she breathed faintly, and wavered toward him. He was beside her in a moment, his arm fast about her. So they faced the door and waited. The sound came again, and with a little catch of breath Julie whispered, “Look!” and pointed. A bit of white paper was creeping in under the door-sill. They stood and watched it with fixed eyes. It came in slowly, uncertainly, making a little scratching sound as it came. A long black hairpin was being used to push it in: they saw the sharp wire line of it dark against the white of the paper. Slowly, thoroughly it came creeping under the door. Then with a final poke the hairpin was withdrawn, and the paper lay there white upon the floor. A faint pause followed, and then footsteps creaked away down the hall. Tim stooped quickly and snatched the paper up. It was a flimsy half sheet, and was folded into a note. “What is it?” Julie faltered. Some words were scrawled on the outside. It took a little time to puzzle them out. “Don’t read till I say when,” they deciphered finally. “Oh, it’s Miss Fogg!” Julie cried with an unsteady laugh of relief. “But what does she mean? How are we to know when she says ‘when’?” As the question died on her lips she was answered by the sudden explosion of a pistol-shot. An instant of caught silence followed, and then doors were banged open and people began to run through the house. “_Miss Fogg!_” Julie screamed. She and Tim ran also, down the hall and up the stairs. When they reached the place, the room was crowded full of people. The locked drawer in her bureau was pulled open, and old Miss Fogg lay on the floor, a pistol beside her, slipped out of her dead hand. The people were talking disjointedly, crowding in, and one was stooping down touching her. Their words came in confused ejaculation. “She’s dead--just as dead as a nit!” “My Lord! what a sight!” “She done it with that pistol.” “Don’t touch her. Don’t touch her, I say! She’s dead, all right.” “But she wa’n’t dead when I got here; she give a kind of a flop or two just as I got to the door.” “Well, she’s dead now. The poor crazy old soul!” “She’s killed herself all right!” “Don’t touch her, I say! Don’t! You got to let her lay like she is till the coroner comes.” “Mind! you’re gettin’ your hands all into it.” “_My Lord! What a sight!_” Julie took one look at the figure on the floor, at the old face, at the gray hair that she had sometimes brushed, at the muslin waist she had pressed so carefully, all streaked now--and something crashed within her. She reeled against Tim. “Take me away--downstairs,” she panted. He supported her down the narrow steps, and back into their own rooms. She sank on a chair. “Read her letter,” she commanded. He took the twist of paper and, unfolding it, puzzled over it for a time in silence. “It’s mighty hard to read; it’s written so funny; she’s left out a lot of words, and written some twice over, an’ all running down on the paper,” he hesitated.