“Oh, why did I leave her here?” he sobbed. “I ought to have known how it would be. They persecuted and crushed her with their suspicions and accusations and family pride! My poor, lost darling! it was too, too cruel!” It was dark before he could regain anything approaching composure, and then he went to seek the people who had kept the ill-fated lodging-house where Salome had gone to hide. He wished to make inquiries regarding the terrible tragedy that had robbed him of his wife. But he gained no new points. Miss Howland had come there in a hack, they told him. They did not know where she came from, nor how long she intended to remain there. She was not well—not able to work, and kept secluded in her own room, but as she paid her rent in advance they did not concern themselves about that. Dr. Winthrop made them describe her minutely and questioned them very closely, and he was convinced there was no mistake—it was Salome of whom they were talking beyond the shadow of a doubt. “Are you sure that she did not escape—that she was—was——” He could not complete the sentence except by a shiver of horror. “Burned?” supplemented the less sensitive landlord. “Yes, sir, it was simply impossible for her to escape—in fact, all the girls who were on that side of the stairway were doomed. But I don’t think they suffered so very much, sir,” he added, as he saw how white the young doctor’s lips were. “They must have been suffocated before the worst came.” “And—and their—bodies?” No one would have recognized Dr. Winthrop’s voice as he made this inquiry. “Well, sir, you see they weren’t all recovered—it was a terrible fire, and when the walls fell in they must have been crushed and slowly consumed among the red-hot ruins. Only five or six were found, and those were buried in Greenwood by subscriptions raised by some kind ladies.” Dr. Winthrop would hear no more—he staggered to his feet and groped his way like a blind man into the street, wondering if he should go mad—wondering if he should ever again be able to sleep, with the memory of that horror haunting him. He returned to his house, but not to rest. He paced from room to room of his lonely dwelling all night long and fought his grief as only such strong, deep natures can fight, and when morning broke it was hard to recognize in that bowed form, that haggard and furrowed face, the handsome, stately, and energetic Dr. Truman Winthrop. He sent Dick out to procure food which he forced himself to eat, simply because he knew that he must have nourishment, and then, still unnerved and broken, shuddering with horror and quivering with grief, he again wandered all day about the desolate and cheerless abode. When night came he was utterly exhausted, and throwing himself all dressed upon his bed, he slept simply because he was worn out, and tired nature must have rest. The next day was Saturday, and at an early hour of the morning he again presented himself before his mother and sister.