"I'll rest here," she announced, dropping weakly into a chair by the stairhead. "Oh, it doesn't matter what I'm sitting on," as Somers attempted to remove several overcoats, evidently the overflow from the wraps lying in the living room below. "Bring me the small glass of whisky which Miss Betty poured out before she went downstairs." In her haste Somers neglected to add any water and Mrs. Nash drank the whisky neat with a wry face. With the false strength engendered by the stimulant, she managed to get back to her room and into bed before her husband came upstairs. "How are you, dear?" he asked solicitously. "Do you feel stronger?" "Yes, now that I've taken some whisky," promptly, conscious that the telltale fumes might betray her activities if questioned on the subject. "Are the services over?" He bowed gravely. "Betty and I are just starting for the cemetery." "Where is Alan Mason?" sharply. "He is going with us, also Sheriff Trenholm. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave, Dora?" "Not a thing, thanks." Nash looked across the room at Somers; she had her back turned, while engaged in putting Mrs. Nash's lingerie neatly away in the bureau drawer. Stooping over, Nash kissed his wife with unwonted tenderness, then, pressing her hand, hurried away as his name was called by Alan Mason just outside the bedroom door. A room had been prepared for Somers halfway down the corridor of the right-hand wing of the house, and between Mrs. Nash's periods of dozing the maid succeeded, with Martha Corbin's help, in arranging her belongings to her satisfaction. Somers' methodical mind would not permit her to rest until her own room and that of Mrs. Nash were in apple-pie order. Her trips back and forth took her past Miriam Ward's bedroom and on her final excursion she stumbled over Martha who, not expecting Somers to return so quickly, had knelt down and applied her eye to the keyhole of Miriam's door. The commotion aroused Miriam from fitful slumber and, springing out of bed, she threw her dressing gown over her shoulders and looked out into the corridor. Somers, rising slowly to her feet, was rubbing a rheumatic knee, while her bewildered eyes followed Martha's fleeing figure. "Are you hurt?" asked Miriam, noting with surprise the scattered bundle on the floor. "No, Madam," Somers' precision of speech and her rising intonation clearly denoted her nationality. "A bit shaken," her smile was wintry. "Excuse me for disturbing you." "Come inside," suggested Miriam kindly, observing that, in spite of her disclaimer, the elderly woman was considerably upset. "Don't stoop over, I will pick up what you dropped. Sit here in this chair," and Somers, after a feeble protest, did as she was told. "I don't know where that woman sprung from," she added, after describing what had happened. "My arms were full of bed linen and I wasn't looking down. She's a bit uncanny, Miss, don't you think?"