In the illness of the mistress, and with the superstitions of servants, the room had been left untouched, unentered, since the first day of the discovery of Gipsy’s tragic disappearance. Laurie set the lamp upon the table, turned the flame up high, and stood surveying the scene of his parting with Gipsy Darke, barely three days ago. The window was still wide open, the bloody curtains, of which Crawford had told him, flapped limply back and forth in the damp night air, the overturned chair with the bloody white draperies lay upon the floor, the heavy paper-weight, the instrument of destruction, was on the window-sill, the dead roses in the vase emitted a sickly, decaying odor. All was dismal and desolate where, such a little while ago, a beautiful, gracious presence had lent its nameless charm to the simple little room. He stood and stared about the lonely space, with horror in his eyes and despair in his heart, groaning: “Oh, Gipsy, my darling, my darling, would I had been by your side to defend you from the assassin’s deadly blow, or to receive it in my own person!” He looked about him for some little souvenir to keep, in memory of his dear, dead love, but everything was stainlessly neat and prim, with no trifles lying about, for Mrs. Goodwill had kept it so as best suited to a sick-room. There was, indeed, a little case of books on which her dark eyes must have lingered often, but the key was locked and taken away. Something small and sparkling on the floor near the chair drew his attention. He picked it up. It was the larger side of a gold link cuff-button, set with a small diamond. It had broken loose from its shank, half of which dangled from it, caught in a wisp of dark hair. “It was hers, poor girl. It was broken off in the struggle for her life!” he groaned, and, kissing the tangle of dark, silken hair, he hid the precious souvenir against his heart. Then he knelt down by the flapping curtains, pressed his lips on the dark blood-stains, lifted his pale, convulsed face to the silent heavens, and murmured, passionately: “Gipsy, my darling, my lost love, whom I hoped to call my wife, lean down from heaven, love, and hear me! I swear, love, that I will bring home your murder to the vile criminal who struck you down in your youthful bloom, and bereaved me of hope and happiness. I will bring him to justice if it costs every dollar of my fortune and every drop of my heart’s blood, so help me Heaven!” Rising, then, he passed silently from the room, back to his own, and flung himself down in a chair by the open window to resolve that ere to-morrow’s sun set he would put in motion the forces that would track the murderer to his lair. The night waned and grew old. Weariness crept upon him like an armed man; he slept. Dawn broke in glimmering streaks, a chorus of song-birds announced the new day. With their music blent the sound of loud, excited rapping on the door.