Old Salt closed the room door, and turned to the trembling girl. “Miss Austin,” he said kindly, “I like you, I want to help you—but I must ask you to explain yourself a little. The people in my house call you Miss Mystery. Why are you here? Why are you in Corinth at all?” For a moment the girl seemed about to respond to his kindly, gentle attitude and address. Then, something stayed her, and she let her lovely face harden to a stony blankness, as she replied, “It is a bit intrusive, but I’ve no reason not to tell. I am an art student, and I came here to paint New England winter scenery.” “Have you done much?” “I haven’t been here quite a week yet—and I’ve been picking out available bits—and for two days I’ve had a cold.” “How did you get cold?” The voice was kind but it had a definite note, as if desirous of an accurate answer. Miss Mystery looked at him. “How does any one get cold?” she said, trying to smile; “perhaps sitting in a draught—perhaps by means of a germ. It is almost well now.” “Perhaps by walking in the snow, and getting one’s feet wet,” Mr. Adams suggested, and the girl turned frightened eyes on him. “Don’t,” she breathed; “Mr. Adams, don’t!” Her voice was piteous her eyes implored him to stop torturing her. “Why, what’s the harm in my saying that?” he went on, inexorably. “You wouldn’t go anywhere that you wouldn’t want known—would you—Miss Mystery?” He spoke the last two words in a meaning way, and the great dark eyes faced him with the look of a stag at bay. Then again, by a desperate effort the girl recovered herself, and said, coldly, “Please speak plainly, Mr. Adams. Is there a special meaning in your words?” “There is, Miss Austin. Perhaps I have no right to ask you why—but I do ask you if you went over to Doctor Waring’s house, late in the evening—night before last?” “Sunday night, do you mean?” Miss Mystery controlled her voice, but her hands were clenched and her foot tapped the floor in her stifled excitement. “Yes, Sunday night.” “No; of course I did not go over there at night. I was there in the afternoon, with Mrs. Bates and Mr. Payne.” “I know that. And you then met Doctor Waring for the first time?” “For the first time,” she spoke with downcast face. “The first time in your life?” “The first time in my life,” but if ever a statement carried its own denial that one seemed to. The long dark lashes fell on the white cheeks. The pale lips quivered, and if Anita Austin had been uttering deepest perjury she could have shown no more convincing evidence of falsehood. Yet old Salt looked at her benevolently. She was so young, so small, so alone—and so mysterious.