"No--yes," he says; "well, the truth is, Winans, I hate to be the bearer of the tidings, but the fact is simply this: Mrs. Winans' excessive agitation and grief have culminated in what the physician calls a serious attack of brain fever." "Great Heaven! what have I done?" The strong man reeled backward as if from a blow just as another professional rap sounded on the door. "Come in," he says, with a strong effort at self-control. This time it was Keene. Slender, small, and shrewd-looking, he fits his name, and his name fits him. He bows to both gentlemen, leisurely taking the seat he is offered. "Anything new?" he is asked. "A moment, if you please. Senator, if you will be so kind as to order up the chamber-maid who attends the ladies' parlors on this floor, I will ask her a few questions." Winans rang the bell violently. "You do not suppose _she_ has stolen the child?" he queries, a little astonished. "Not at all," Mr. Keene smiled cheerfully back. A white-aproned waiter answered the bell just then, Winans gave the desired order, and resumed his moody walk again, until interrupted by the entrance of the maid he had summoned. A rather pretty and pleasant-faced girl she was, neatly dressed, and with a due modicum of modesty, for the color came into her smooth, round cheek, and she looked down and trifled with her apron-string as Mr. Keene smiled approval at her. "What is your name, my girl?" "Annie Brady, sir." "Ah, yes. Well, Miss Annie, you preside over the ladies' rooms on this floor? Attend to the ladies, I mean?" "Oh! yes, sir." "Well, Annie, I have heard--you can tell me if it is true--did any of the ladies you have been waiting on in this hotel leave here yesterday for a foreign port?" The pretty Irish girl reflected. "Yes, sir," with a small courtesy; "and indade I believe there was wan." "You believe. Are you quite _certain_?" "Yes, sir, I am quite certain. It were the poor English lady whose room was opposite this one--number 20, sir." She half-opened the door and indicated number 20 with her finger. "Just across the hall." "The _poor_ English lady; and why do you call her poor?" asked the detective, curiously, while the two gentlemen listened in silence, and the girl herself edged nearer the door in surprise and bewilderment commingled. "Was she in bad circumstances?" "Why, no, sir, not that way; she seemed quite comfortable so far as money went. It were her mind, sir," said the girl, tapping her forehead significantly. "She seemed not quite right here, sir." "And what sort of a lady was she, and what was her name?" "Her name? It was Mrs. Moreland, sir, and she looked about thirty year old--a pretty little blue-eyed lady, quite broken down with trouble and grief. She came on here a few days ago from New York, and was going home to her friends in London." "Ah! and was she alone? Did she talk with you much, and tell you the cause of her trouble?"