Forgotten for the moment was her own problem. Brilliant, gifted Kiametia Grey a drug fiend--Oh, the pity of it! In the light of her discovery Kathleen remembered many idiosyncrasies which the drug habit would explain; often that winter she had found Miss Kiametia dozing in her chair at the theater, at dinners, in motors, but had put it down to over-fatigue from too much social gayety. Miss Kiametia's variable likes and dislikes, her sudden whims and fancies, her irritability--all were traceable to the same cause. The sound of her name caused Kathleen to raise her head with a start. Henry, the chauffeur, was standing just inside the hall door. "Beg pardon, Miss Kathleen," he said. "Mrs. Whitney wished me to tell you that Miss Grey will spend the night here and has retired to her bedroom. And I was to ask you if you had any orders for the motor tomorrow." "No, none, thanks. As you go downstairs, tell Vincent that I wish to see him." "Vincent has gone, Miss Kathleen." Meeting her quick glance, he added, "It is his evening out." "Oh! Please ask Rosa to stop in my room before she goes to bed." "Very good, Miss Kathleen." As he turned to leave, the loud buzz of the front doorbell sounded. Not waiting to hear the directions Kathleen called after him, Henry darted into the hall. Picking up Miss Kiametia's gold purse and the hypodermic needle, Kathleen replaced them on the table, but halfway to the hall door she hesitated. Should she not take them to Miss Kiametia? Suppose Henry, for instance, should take it into his head to examine them? At the thought Kathleen's face hardened, and she returned to pick up Miss Kiametia's property. Henry's voice from the doorway arrested her. "Captain Miller," he announced, and retired. Kathleen stood as if carved from stone, every vestige of color stricken from her. If her life had depended upon it, she could not have turned around. "Have you no word for me?" asked the familiar voice, and Miller stepped in front of her, his wistful eyes pleading for him. But Kathleen was mute. Slowly, unwillingly his eyes dropped before her level gaze and rested finally on the gold baubles in her hand. "Why do you not wear my ring, Kathleen?" The question stung her out of the bewildered trance into which his unexpected appearance had thrown her. "The ring was returned to you for good and sufficient reasons," she said icily. "That you choose to ignore these reasons does not affect the issue. Will you leave this house, or shall I ring for the servant?" "Kathleen, are you mad?" He whitened to the lips. "Think what you are to me, dearly beloved; your words cut me like a knife." "Your similes are unfortunate," she stammered, with dry lips. "I do not use knives. I leave that for others, the coroner's jury to the contrary." "Do you think the coroner's jury influenced my judgment, sweetheart? Shame--I have more faith than you. I know that you are innocent of Spencer's death."