Mrs. Conifer shrieked. Her husband pulled himself out of the depths of the chair and rushed downstairs. Presently she stole after him, her legs like lead and her wild heart thumping in her throat. The hall was brightly lighted with a red and yellow light, filtering through colored glass lanterns. Face downward on the tesselated floor was the body of a man, his prone head in a pool. The door was flung back. Black night outside and the sob of the wind! Two men, the gardener and another, lifted something from the step and carried it in. Mrs. Conifer dragged herself forward. The world swung round with her--they were bringing in another woman. They stretched her beside the man--a woman with the wreck of a gaudy black beauty. It was a face which Mrs. Conifer had seen once--in the doorway of the Inn, the face of Sophia Dominy, her savior. The servants were telling Dick how it happened. Kinsman had called and asked for him. The woman must have been close behind. As he stepped across the threshold she fired, then turned the weapon to her own head. Kinsman was always a puzzle. What had he been doing in the intervening four years? How had he disgraced himself? Had Sophia been with him all the time? No one will ever know. One thing only is certain; that Sophia, who was a very jolly, good sort of girl, had been bitterly jealous of Mrs. Conifer. Dead eyes blankly regarding her; blood circling sluggishly on the floor; October wind moaning in and lifting sadly the draggled end of smartness on the poor girl’s dress! She lost all control, drew her shaking hands from her breast, and gave a long cry of horror and despair. She couldn’t even be grateful for her escape--couldn’t realize it. Dick turned. He saw her there for the first time. He put an arm about her and led her upstairs--to the firelit room, with the open piano, the bowls of autumn flowers, and the pleasant litter of magazines. She flung herself into his arms, choking with emotion. “My God!” she gasped--suddenly, horribly vehement for so childish and dainty a creature--“if--if--if----” She was on the verge of a confession, but Dick’s trust was so complete that he thought her merely hysterical--as well she might be. He lifted her distorted face from its burrow in his coat and put his wife with tender insistence on the sofa. “There, there,” he said, patting her softly. “Don’t you give way. It’s a beastly business. What the deuce could poor Kinsman have wanted with me? I must go, dearie; there is a great deal to be arranged. I’ll send one of the maids to look after you.” “No,” she cried sharply, “I want to be alone.” He kissed her and went away. After a little she heard him leave the house. Then the baby wailed in the room above and the nurse crooned it quiet. She heard the tramp of feet in the hall; heard the study door shut stealthily, and guessed what this dread, subdued bustle meant.