Barron’s anxiety about her, though not again openly expressed, continued. He was certain that some blow to her peace of mind had been delivered by the man he had seen in the hall. He did not like to question her, or attempt an intrusion into her confidence, but he remembered the few words she had dropped that evening. The man’s name was Essex, and he was a friend of Mrs. Willers’. Barron had known Mrs. Willers for years. He had been a guest in the house during the period of her tenancy, and though he did not see her frequently, had retained an agreeable memory of her and her daughter. It was therefore with great relief that, a few days after his meeting with Essex, he encountered her in the heart of a gray afternoon crossing Union Square Plaza. Mrs. Willers was hastening down to _The Trumpet_ office after a morning’s work in her own rooms. Her rouge had been applied with the usual haste, and she was conscious that three buttons on one of her boots were hardly sufficient to retain that necessary article in place. But she felt brisk and light-hearted, confident that the article in her hand was smart and spicy and would lend brightness to her column in _The Trumpet_. She greeted Barron with a friendly hail, and they paused for a moment’s chat in the middle of the plaza. “You’re looking fresh as a summer morning,” said the mining man, whose life, spent searching for the mineral secrets of the Sierra, had not made him conversant with those of complexions like Mrs. Willers’. “Oh, get out!” said she, greatly pleased; “I’m too old for that sort of taffy. It’s almost Edna’s turn now.” “I’ll be afraid to see Edna soon. She’s going to be such a beauty that the only safety’s in flight.” The mother was even more pleased at this. “You’re right,” she said, nodding at him with a grave eye; “Edna’s a beauty. Where she gets it from is what stumps me. My glass tells me it’s not from her mommer, and my memory tells me it’s not from her popper.” “There’s a man on your paper called Essex,” said Barron, who was not one to beat about the bush; “what sort of a fellow is he, Mrs. Willers?” “A bad sort, I’m inclined to think. Why do you ask?” “He was at the house the other afternoon, calling on Miss Moreau. I met him in the hall. I didn’t cotton to him at all. She told me he was a friend of yours and a writer on _The Trumpet_.” He looked at her inquiringly, hardly liking to go farther till she gave him some encouragement. He noticed that her expression had changed and that she was eying him with a hard, considering attention. “Why didn’t you like his looks?” she said. “Well, I’ve seen men like that before--at the mines. Good-looking chaps, who are sort of imitation gentlemen, and try to make you take the imitation for the real thing by putting on dog. I didn’t like his style, anyhow, and I don’t think she does, either.” “You’re right about that,” said Mrs. Willers; “do you know what he was there for?”