She noted every new arrival, she swept the jury with her all-seeing glance and finally concentrated her attention on the coroner, until, with a quick nod of satisfaction, she ended that scrutiny. Then she turned a little to contemplate the girl beside her. Alma Remsen, to-day in a costume of soft beige-coloured silk weave, looked nervous and worried. Her golden hair, escaping at the sides from her close little hat, framed a face that was clearly worn and wan from a sleepless night. At least it seemed that way to me, and I longed to tell her her secret was safe with me. Never would I divulge to any one the fact that she visited Pleasure Dome on the night of the tragedy. So far, I hadn’t heard a hint of such a thing, and I hoped there would be none. Though we hadn’t been formally introduced, and I had never had a word of conversation with her, I nodded a greeting and smiled. She inclined her head in slight acknowledgment, and then, to my amazement, a look of fright crossed her face. I tried to persuade myself that she had seen some one else or heard some word that alarmed her, but in my heart I felt sure that the shadow of fear was caused by the sight of me. What could it mean? I saw her slip her hand into that of the nurse beside her, and I noted the reassuring pat the woman gave her. It seemed to comfort the girl, and she gave a little smile at her companion. Not wanting to embarrass her further I turned my glance toward Mrs. Dallas. She looked superb this morning. Garbed all in black, yet a black that hinted Paris in its every line and fold, her beautiful face and her great gray eyes showed a quiet sadness that spoke of a deeper grief than emotion could show. Her lovely gray hair was tucked under a black hat, and her lips and cheeks, quite evidently the result of a well-equipped vanity box, were the only touch of colour about her. She sat between Harper Ames and Charles Everett, the post of chief mourner seemingly accorded her as her right. Yet though she was calm and composed, it seemed to me there was an undercurrent of anxiety, a hint of dread or apprehension. Nor was this to be wondered at. The occasion was a tragic one, and as the person most deeply affected by the tragedy, it was only natural that Katherine Dallas should be nervous. Hart first questioned the servants. Though new matter to the jury, we had heard their stories before, and no fresh fact or bit of evidence was forthcoming. No articles had been missed from Sampson Tracy’s rooms except two of his fancy waistcoats and the gayly painted Totem Pole. Several of the servants testified as to Mr. Tracy’s previous possession of these three articles and of their unaccountable absence at present. None of them had heard any sounds during the night or could throw any light on the mystery of the criminal’s entrance or exit, if, indeed, he was not an inmate of the house.