She hung up the receiver with a little sigh, and for the first time in days a faint suspicion of a smile lightened her face. As she turned away, however, her eyes fell upon the great leather chair by the hearth, and her expression changed as she gave an uncontrollable shudder. It was in that chair her father had been found on that fateful morning, about a week ago, clad still in the dinner-clothes of the previous evening, a faint, introspective smile upon his keen, inscrutable face; his eyes wide, with a politely inquiring stare, as if he had looked upon things which until then had been withheld from his vision. She walked over to the chair, and laid her hand where his head had rested. Then, all at once, the tension within her seemed to snap and she flung herself within its capacious, wide-reaching arms, in a torrent of tears--the first she had shed. It was thus that Ramon Hamilton found her, on his arrival twenty minutes later, and without ado, he gathered her up, carried her to the window-seat, and made her cry out her heart upon his shoulder. When she was somewhat quieted he said to her gently, "Dearest, why will you insist upon coming to this room, of all others, at least just for a little time? The memories here will only add to your suffering." "I don't know; I can't explain it. That chair there in which poor father was found has a peculiar, dreadful fascination for me. I have heard that murderers invariably return sooner or later to the scene of their crime. May we not also have the same desire to stay close to the place whence some one we love has departed?" "You are morbid, dear. Bring your maid and come to my mother's house for a little, as she has repeatedly asked you to do. It will make it so much easier for you." "Perhaps it would. Your mother has been so very kind, and yet I feel that I must remain here, that there is something for me to do." "I don't understand. What do you mean, dearest?" She turned swiftly and placed her hands upon his broad shoulders. Her childish eyes were steely with an intensity of purpose hitherto foreign to them. "Ramon, there is something I have not told you or any one; but I feel that the time has come for me to speak. It is not nervousness, or imagination; it is a fact which occurred on the night of my father's death." "Why speak of it, Anita?" He took her hands from his shoulders, and pressed them gently, but with quiet strength. "It is all over now, you know. We must not dwell too much upon what is past; I shall have to help you to put it all from your mind--not to forget, but to make your memories tender and beautiful." "But I must speak of it. It will be on my mind day and night until I have told you. Ramon, you dined with us that night--the night before. Did my father seem ill to you?" "Of course not. I had never known him to be in better health and spirits." Ramon glanced at her in involuntary surprise. "Are you sure?"