"I could not tell you to-day," she wrote, "all I felt. To-morrow you shall know, if you meet me. Do not fear that I will reproach you. You will receive this letter in the morning. At twelve o'clock I shall be waiting for you on the sixth bench on the row south of the fountain-- the sixth bench--the farthest from the church." "YVETTE." McLane was overjoyed at his good luck. He felt that he hardly merited it. He was early at the spot, and sat down on the last bench of the row facing the fountain. Yvette had not yet arrived, but it was still half an hour before the time. McLane read the morning paper and waited. At last the bells all around him chimed the hour of twelve. She had not come. This was unusual, but always possible. She might not have succeeded in getting away. The quarter and then the half hour passed before McLane began to suspect that he had been made the victim of a practical joke. He dismissed the thought; such a thing was so unlike her. He walked around the little park, hoping he had mistaken the row of benches. She was not there. He read the letter again. It was plain enough--the sixth bench. He counted the benches beginning at the church. One--two--three--four--five. There were only five benches in the row. As he gazed stupidly at the fifth bench a man beside him said--"That is the bench, sir." "What do you mean?" cried McLane, turning toward him, astonished at the remark. "It was there that the young girl was found dead this morning-- poisoned, they say." McLane stared at him--and then he said huskily-- "Who--was she?" "Nobody knows that--yet. We will soon know, for everybody, as you see, is going into the Morgue. She's the only one on the bench to-day. Better go before the crowd gets greater. I have been twice." McLane sank on the seat and drew his hand across his forehead. He knew she was waiting for him on the sixth bench--the furthest from the church!