The captain noticed this and ventured upon interrogating her further. “How long had he been gone?” Her lips parted; she was deeply agitated; but when she spoke it was coldly and with studied precision. “Mr. Jeffrey was not at home tonight at all. He has not been in all day.” “Not at home? Did his wife know that he was going to dine out?” “She said nothing about it.” The captain cut short his questions and in another moment I understood why. A gentleman was standing in the doorway, whose face once seen, was enough to stop the words on any man’s lips. Miss Tuttle saw this gentleman almost as quickly as we did and sank with an involuntary moan to her knees. It was Francis Jeffrey come to look upon his dead bride. I have been present at many tragic scenes and have beheld men under almost every aspect of grief, terror and remorse; but there was something in the face of this man at this dreadful moment that was quite new to me, and, as I judge, equally new to the other hardy officials about me. To be sure he was a gentleman and a very high-bred one at that; and it is but seldom we have to do with any of his ilk. Breathlessly we awaited his first words. Not that he showed frenzy or made any display of the grief or surprise natural to the occasion. On the contrary, he was the quietest person present, and among all the emotions his white face mirrored I saw no signs of what might be called sorrow. Yet his appearance was one to wring the heart and rouse the most contradictory conjectures as to just what chord in his evidently highly strung nature throbbed most acutely to the horror and astonishment of this appalling end of so short a married life. His eye, which was fixed on the prostrate body of his bride, did not yield up its secret. When he moved and came to where she lay and caught his first sight of the ribbon and the pistol attached to it, the most experienced among us were baffled as to the nature of his feelings and thoughts. One thing alone was patent to all. He had no wish to touch this woman whom he had so lately sworn to cherish. His eyes devoured her, he shuddered and strove several times to speak, and though kneeling by her side, he did not reach forth his hand nor did he let a tear fall on the appealing features so pathetically turned upward as if to meet his look. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. “Must she stay here?” he demanded, looking about for the person most in authority. The captain answered by a question: “How do you account for her being here at all? What explanation have you, as her husband, to give for this strange suicide of your wife?” For reply, Mr. Jeffrey, who was an exceptionally handsome man, drew forth a small slip of crumpled paper, which he immediately handed over to the speaker. “Let her own words explain,” said he. “I found this scrap of writing in our upstairs room when I returned home tonight. She must have written it just before—before—”