Salome neglected nothing; everything was put in perfect order under her supervision. All the silver and everything that would be likely to tempt rogues were sent to a safety vault; the water and gas were turned off, and nothing was allowed to be left in a way to come to any harm. The servants were all paid and a generous gift added to their wages, and then Salome was ready to leave her beautiful home. Dick was still to have charge of the horses and exercise them every day, and he was both touched and pleased with this mark of her confidence. He asked if he should bring the ponies around to take Salome where she wanted to go, but she told him no, she had ordered a carriage, though her pale face flushed a bright scarlet as she rejected his offer and thought that she should never ride after the pretty creatures again. Then with her own hands she locked the door, through which she passed feeling that she was a discarded wife, giving the key to Dick, to be delivered to Dr. Winthrop’s lawyer, and stepped into the carriage, while the driver placed her trunk, the one she had brought with her from Boston, on the rack behind. The next moment she was driven away, while Dick, who stood on the steps looking after her, shook his head in perplexity as he brushed a tear from his cheek with his sleeve and muttered: “Something’s wrong; that heart-broken look on her white face ain’t fer nothing. I dunno what’s up, but things have been getting mixed and muddled ever since they came home. I only wish the doctor’d put in an appearance this very minute.” CHAPTER XV. AN APPALLING TRAGEDY. Late that same evening a stately woman walked into the office of the —— Hotel. She was enveloped in a long cloak and was closely veiled. She inquired if Mrs. Truman Winthrop had taken rooms there that day. “No,” the clerk answered, “there is no one by that name in the house.” The woman started slightly and glanced keenly at him. “Are you quite sure?” she asked. “Yes, madam; here is the hotel register; madam can examine for herself,” and the young man placed the book before her. She ran her eye quickly up and down the lines of the open book. The name of Winthrop was not there, neither could she find that of Salome Howland, for which she also looked. She stood silent and perplexed for a moment; then she asked: “Has there no young woman of perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, of medium height, dark but rather pale complexion, with black hair and eyes, come here unattended to-day to engage rooms?” “No, madam; no such person as you have described has been here to-day,” was the positive rejoinder. Madame Winthrop—for the veiled woman was she—thought for a moment; then she said: