The men who filled the grave were the most light-hearted in the group. They pulled up a board, and the pile of fresh earth at the mouth of the grave, which it had upheld, went rattling in on the coffin and flowers, almost gladly it seemed to Penelope. She shivered slightly, but watched as if fascinated, until the men put on the last shovel-full and with a spade deftly shaped out the mound. Richard helped her cover the newly-made grave with the flowers and green ivy and smilax they had brought for that purpose. They were the last to leave. The others had walked slowly among the graves and back to the place where the carriages were waiting. The hearse, immediately after the coffin was lowered into the earth, had gone off with rollicking speed, as if eager for new freight, and the workmen with their spades and picks had disappeared. “It is ended,” said Dick with a relieved sigh, as he led Penelope back to her carriage. “Now let us forget all the misery of these last few days and be happy.” “It is not ended,” exclaimed Penelope, spiritedly. “It has only begun. I can never be happy until I know the secret of that girl’s death.” “That is impossible, Penelope,” replied Dick. “That mystery can never be solved.” “Dick, you have sworn you love me; you have sworn that you would do anything I asked if I would marry you. Did you mean it? Will you swear it again?” cried Penelope, breathlessly. “Mean it, love?” repeated Dick, as he pressed her hand closely between his arm and heart. “Upon my life, I swear it.” “Then solve the mystery of that girl’s death, and I will be your wife.” CHAPTER III. WHEREIN DICK TREADWELL MEETS WITH ANOTHER ADVENTURE. Richard Treadwell was in despair. Days had passed since the burial of the unknown girl, and he was no nearer the solution of the mystery than he was on the morning of the discovery. He had not learned one new thing in the case, and what was infinitely worse, he had not the least idea how to set about the task. He had taken to wandering restlessly about the city racked with the wildest despondency. “Great Lord, if I only had an idea,” he thought, desperately, as he walked up Fifth Avenue. “If I only knew how to begin--if I only knew where to begin--if I only knew what to do--if I only--Confound the girl, anyhow. Why couldn’t she have died somewhere else, or why didn’t some one else find her instead of us. Confound it, I’ll be hanged if I hadn’t enough to worry about before. Women will take the most infernal whims. Good Lord! If I wasn’t suspected of being connected with her death, and if Penelope----But I’ll be d---- if I can give it the go-by. It’s solve the mystery or lose Penelope! If I only knew how to go to work. But, by Jove, I know I could preach a sermon, or set a broken leg, or--or cook a dinner easier than find out why, where, when, how, that yellow-haired girl died. Curse my luck, anyhow.”