And then Lockwood laughed at himself. To romance thus about a girl to whom he had not said half a dozen sentences in his life! Yet he knew he was not mistaken. All that he had read in Anita Austin’s face, he was sure was there. He knew physiognomy, and rarely, if ever, was mistaken in his reading thereof. After the lecture was over, Miss Austin went home as quickly as possible. Lockwood would have liked to escort her, but he had to remain to report to Doctor Waring, who might have some orders for him. There were none, however, and after a short interview with his employer, Gordon Lockwood went home. As he went softly upstairs to his room in the Adams house, he passed the door of what he knew to be Miss Austin’s room. He fancied he heard a stifled sob come from behind that closed door, and instinctively paused to listen a moment. Yes, he was not mistaken. Another sob followed, quickly suppressed, but he could have no doubt the girl was crying. For a moment Lockwood was tempted to go back and ask Mrs. Adams to come and tap at the girl’s door. Then he realized that it was not his affair. If the girl was in sorrow or if she wanted to cry for any reason, it was not his place to send someone to intrude upon her. He went on to his own room, but he sat up for a long time thinking over the strange young woman in the house. He remembered that she had paid undeviating attention to the lecture, quite evidently following the speaker with attention and interest. He remembered every detail of her appearance, her pretty dark hair showing beneath her little velvet toque,—the absurd buttons on the back of her frock. “That will do, Gordon, old man,” he told himself at last. Better let her alone. She’s a siren all right, but you know nothing about her, and you’ve no reason to try to learn more. And then he heard voices in the hall. Low of tone, but angry of inflection. “She threw it away!” Miss Austin was saying; “I tell you she threw it away!” “There, there,” came Mrs. Adams’ placating voice, “what if she did? It was only a newspaper scrap. She didn’t know it was of any value.” “But I want it! Nora has no business to throw away my things! She had no reason to touch it; it was on the dresser—standing up against the mirror frame. What do you suppose she did with it?” “Never mind it tonight. Tomorrow we will ask her. She’s gone to bed.” “But I’m afraid she destroyed it!” “Probably she did. Don’t take on so. What paper was it?” “The Corinth Gazette.” “The new one?” “I don’t know. The one she brought me this afternoon.” “Well, if she has thrown it away, you can get another copy. What was in it that you want so much?” “Oh,—nothing special.” “Yes, it was.” Mrs. Adams’ curiosity was aroused now. “Come, tell me what it was.” “Well, it was only a picture of Doctor Waring, the man who lectured tonight.” “Such a fuss about that! My goodness! Why, you can get a picture of him anywhere.” “But I want it now.”