“Nothing, I believe. Your uncle says there was no mention of it. I daresay the news has been held up for the time being. Waiting for full details. Wasn't it fortunate,--wasn't it providential that the transfer to the _Campion_ was so cleverly accomplished?” A maid-servant came to the door. “You are wanted on the telephone, Mrs. Carstairs. Shall I say you are engaged?” “Who is it, Wrenn?” “A gentleman. I couldn't catch the name, Mrs. Carstairs.” “I will see who it is.” After she had closed Louise's door behind her, Frieda Carstairs stood stockstill in the long corridor. She put her hand to her breast and held it there lightly, as if to transmit its vital strength to the organ which pounded so violently. Her tall figure was tense; her face took on the pallor of death and its rigidity. For as long as fifteen or twenty seconds, she remained motionless. Then her lips moved stiffly; they twitched as in a spasm of pain. The two words they formed hut did not utter were: “Poor girl!” Once, as she covered the short distance to her own sitting-room, her figure swayed slightly. She even put out a hand to steady herself against the wall,--a needless precaution, for she instantly regained command of herself. She closed the door, and, before taking up the receiver, threw in the device which cut out the instrument from other extensions in the apartment,--those in the butler's pantry, her husband's study, and the one that stood on the night-table at the head of his bed. Her knees suddenly became weak; they trembled as with the palsy. She sat down at the writing table and dropped her elbow heavily on the top. Again she feared that she was going to faint. “Yes?” she murmured thickly into the transmitter, and, instantly realizing that her voice betrayed nervousness and even alarm, repeated the word firmly, crisply. “Yes,--this is Mrs. Carstairs.” “I am speaking for the _Evening----_” (the name of the newspaper was indistinctly pronounced)--“and I called up, Mrs. Carstairs, to ask if it is true that Captain Derrol Steele was engaged to be married to your niece, Miss Louise Hansbury?” She did not reply. Her lips parted but no sound issued forth. Again the voice spoke in her ear. “Are you there?” The “yes” she uttered in reply was little more than a hoarse gasp. And then: “I hear you quite distinctly.” There was a click at the other end. Slowly, as in a daze, she hung up the receiver. Not another word passed.