Mrs. Porter had hoped that Millicent’s unnatural calm would give way when unburdening herself to her old chum, Dorothy Deane, and she had made opportunities to leave the girls together. But she was not aware that Dorothy had shown an equal desire to avoid the topic of the tragedy, and Millicent found to her secret relief that she was not urged to confidences which she might later bitterly regret. But that afternoon she had felt the need of being by herself, and had fled upstairs, hoping her mother would not think of looking for her in the attic. Millicent pulled a chair close to her side and was on the point of rising from her cramped position before the trunk when she heard someone coming up the uncarpeted stairs. She slammed the ledger shut and thrust it among the silks and laces in the trunk, and, pulling out a vanity box, commenced powdering her nose and removing all traces of recent tears. “Who’s there?” she called, as heavy steps approached. “Me, Miss Millicent.” “Oh, Murray!” Her tone spoke her relief. “Have you brought the coffee and sandwiches I told Selby to order for me?” “Yes, miss.” And the footman emerged from behind the highboy which, with a Japanese screen, partly blocked the view of the cozy corner from the rest of the attic. “Just put the tray on my desk,” directed Millicent. “Has mother gone out?” “Yes, miss; she took Miss Dorothy in to Washington.” Murray moved several of the desk ornaments to make room for the tray. “These ladies called just now, Miss Millicent, but I said you were out.” And he handed her a number of visiting-cards. She barely glanced at the names before tossing the cards aside. “I am thankful you did, Murray; make my excuses to callers for the next week. I can see no one.” “Very good, miss.” But Murray lingered, a troubled look in his eyes. “The ’tec, Mitchell, left word that he’d be back this evening, miss, and that he’s got to see you.” “Oh, he has?” Millicent’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Inform Mr. Mitchell that I decline to see him.” “Yes, miss,” and Murray smiled broadly. “Shall I throw him out, miss?” “Heavens, no!” exclaimed Millicent. “You might get in serious trouble with the law. He has, I suppose,” bitterly, “the right to hang about the scene of a crime--detectives are sanctioned human vultures.” “He is, miss; a regular troublesome, meddlesome busybody, getting innocent people into trouble,” responded Murray feelingly. “He thinks he’s so bright with his ideas--I’ll idea him.” And the footman, forgetting his customary respectful attitude in his indignation, doubled up his fists suggestively. “How is Miss Deane feeling, miss?” “Who, Miss Vera? She is at last getting some rest; be sure, Murray, and tell mother and Miss Dorothy not to disturb her when they return.” “Certainly, miss.” The footman turned to leave. “Anything else I can get you, miss?” “Not a thing, thank you.” But as Murray stepped around the highboy she asked: “Any telegrams or telephones?”