"Good heavens! a woman, I know, from the silken garments. Now, what is she doing out here on the ground in this Cimmerian darkness, with the snow coming down in a fury?" He raised his voice and shouted loudly: "Halloo, halloo!" The closed door of the depot, with its one blinking lighted window, opened, and then the form of a man appeared in the opening. "Who is it, and what's the matter?" he exclaimed, shortly. "Bring a lantern out here. I've found a woman dead in the snow!" was the startling answer. Ralph had knelt down and felt the face and hands of the motionless woman. They were cold as ice, and he realized that she was dead. "Horrible!" he murmured, and while he waited for the man to come with the lantern little thrills of awe ran through him. The flesh he had touched was firm and young, the hair was soft and curly, the garments silken. Who was she, and why was she out here under the night sky, cold and dead? The depot agent came hurrying out through the driving snow, and flashed the light of his lantern full into their faces, for Ralph was still kneeling down by the motionless form. "Who are you, and what is the row?" he inquired, curiously, but Ralph did not reply. He was gazing in terror at the silent face with its closed eyes that lay so pale and still before him, wet with the falling snow, the bronze curls tangled on the forehead, drops of blood congealed on the exquisitely-formed ears; and, oh, horror! the white throat and chin had dark crimson finger-marks upon them. The small velvet hat had fallen off, the dress pocket was turned inside out, one hand had the glove torn off, and was wounded where a ring had been wrenched from it. "Oh, Heaven!" groaned Ralph Chainey, in a low voice of shuddering horror, and the man exclaimed: "Why, this looks like robbery and murder! See, her pocket has been turned inside out, a ring has been torn from her finger--a diamond, very likely--and her ears are bleeding where her ear-rings have been torn out! Look at the red marks on her throat! Good Lord; she has certainly been choked and robbed by some devil in human shape! Mister, who are you, and where did you come from, and how did you find her?" Ralph Chainey, whose face had grown as white as the dead one before him, did not reply save by a second groan of unutterable horror. He was wringing his hands in dismay, and the expression of his eyes was one of bitterest anguish. Not until the man shook him by the shoulder, and plied him over and over with questions, did he reply, telling him in disjointed sentences the simple truth of how he came there, and adding: "If I am not mistaken, she is Miss Carew, a young Boston lady, whom I met there only last night. How she came here, what is the mystery of this, I can not understand." CHAPTER XI. THE FATAL TELEGRAM.