The good-natured smile that passed between them, proved the unlikelihood of this, and Old Salt went on. “I wish you’d tell her, wife, about the tragedy. Seems like she ought to know.” Mrs. Adams stared at him. “I’ll tell her, as a matter of course, but I don’t know why you’re so anxious about it.” “Good morning, Miss Austin,” the good lady said, soon after, “better this morning?” “Yes, thank you. My cold is almost entirely well.” The girl was sitting by the window, in an easy chair. She had on a Japanese dressing gown of quilted silk, embroidered with chrysanthemums, and was listlessly gazing out across the snow covered field opposite. The Adams house was on the outskirts of the little town, and separated by a wide field from the Waring place. “Heard the news about Doctor Waring?” Mrs. Adams said, in a casual tone, but watching the girl closely. “No; what is it?” The words were simple, and the voice steady, but Miss Austin’s hands clutched the arms of the chair, and her face turned perfectly white. “Why, what ails you? You don’t know the man, do you?” “I—I heard him lecture, you know. Tell me—what is the—the news?” “He’s dead.” Mrs. Adams spoke bluntly on purpose. She had felt in a vague way, that this strange person, this Miss Mystery, had more interest in Doctor Waring than she admitted, and the landlady was determined to find out. To her own satisfaction she did find out, for the girl almost fainted. She didn’t quite lose consciousness, indeed it was not so much a faint as such a desperate effort to regain her poise, that it unnerved her. “Now, now, Miss Austin, why do you take it so hard? He was a stranger to you, wasn’t he?” “Yes—yes, of course he was.” “Why are you so disturbed then?” “He was such a—such a fine man—” the girl’s stifled sobs impeded her speech. “Well, somebody killed him.” At that, Miss Austin seemed turned to stone. “Killed him!” she whispered, in accent of terror. “Yes—or else he killed himself—they don’t feel sure.” Mrs. Adams, once embarked on the narrative, told all she knew of the circumstances, and in the exciting recital, almost forgot to watch the effect of the tale on her listener. But this effect was not entirely unnoted. At the partly open door, Old Salt Adams, stood, eavesdropping, but with a kindly, anxious look on his face, that boded no ill to any one. And he noticed that the girl’s attention was wandering. She was pitifully white, her face drawn and scared, and soon she exclaimed, with a burst of nervous fury, “Stop! please stop! Leave the room, won’t you?” It was not a command but an agonized entreaty. Mrs. Adams fairly jumped, and alarmed as well as offended, she rose and started for the door, only to meet her husband entering. “Go downstairs, Esther,” he said, gravely, “I want to speak to Miss Austin myself.” Staring at one then at the other, and utterly routed by this unbelievable turn of affairs, Mrs. Adams went.