“Pshaw!” The end of the pin would strike against the comb holding Violet’s chestnut-coloured locks. “Living in a house as mysterious as the secret it contains. But--” here he allowed his patience apparently to forsake him, “I will bore you no longer. Go to your teas and balls; I will struggle with my dark affairs alone.” His hand went to the packet of papers she affected so ostentatiously to despise. He could be as nonchalant as she. But he did not lift them; he let them lie. Yet the young heiress had not made a movement or even turned the slightest glance his way. “A woman difficult to understand! A mysterious house--possibly a mysterious crime!” Thus Violet kept repeating in silent self-communion, as flushed with dancing she sat that evening in a highly-scented conservatory, dividing her attention between the compliments of her partner and the splash of a fountain bubbling in the heart of this mass of tropical foliage; and when some hours later she sat down in her chintz-furnished bedroom for a few minutes’ thought before retiring, it was to draw from a little oak box at her elbow the half-dozen or so folded sheets of closely written paper which had been left for her perusal by her persistent employer. Glancing first at the signature and finding it to be one already favourably known at the bar, she read with avidity the statement of events thus vouched for, finding them curious enough in all conscience to keep her awake for another full hour. We here subscribe it: I am a lawyer with an office in the Times Square Building. My business is mainly local, but sometimes I am called out of town, as witness the following summons received by me on the fifth of last October. DEAR SIR,-- I wish to make my will. I am an invalid and cannot leave my room. Will you come to me? The enclosed reference will answer for my respectability. If it satisfies you and you decide to accommodate me, please hasten your visit; I have not many days to live. A carriage will meet you at Highland Station at any hour you designate. Telegraph reply. A. Postlethwaite, Gloom Cottage, ----, N. J. The reference given was a Mr. Weed of Eighty-sixth Street--a well-known man of unimpeachable reputation. Calling him up at his business office, I asked him what he could tell me about Mr. Postlethwaite of Gloom Cottage, ----, N. J. The answer astonished me: “There is no Mr. Postlethwaite to be found at that address. He died years ago. There is a Mrs. Postlethwaite--a confirmed paralytic. Do you mean her?” I glanced at the letter still lying open at the side of the telephone: “The signature reads A. Postlethwaite.” “Then it’s she. Her name is Arabella. She hates the name, being a woman of no sentiment. Uses her initials even on her cheques. What does she want of you?” “To draw her will.” “Oblige her. It’ll be experience for you.” And he slammed home the receiver.