home first. Her aunt was in the country, but the
servants gave her a warm welcome, and after resting for an hour, she took
her way to the residence of Archer Trevlyn, but a few squares distant.

A strange silence seemed to hang over the palatial mansion. The blinds
were closed--there was no sign of life about the premises. A thrill of
unexplained dread ran through her frame as she touched the silver-handled
bell. The servant who answered her summons seemed to partake of the
strange, solemn quiet pervading everything.

"Is Mr. Trevlyn in?" she asked, trembling in spite of herself.

"I believe Mr. Trevlyn has left the country, madam."

"Left the country? When did he go?"

"Some days ago."

Margie leaned against the carved marble vase which flanked the massive
doorway, unconsciously crushing the crimson petals of the trumpet-flower
which grew therein. What should she do? She could write to him. His wife
would know his address. She caught at the idea.

"Mrs. Trevlyn--take me to her! She was an old friend of mine."

The man looked at her curiously, hesitated a moment, and motioning her
to enter, indicated the closed door of the parlor.

"You can go in, I presume, as you are a friend of the family."

A feeling of solemnity, which was almost awe, stole over Margie as she
turned the handle of the door, and stepped inside the parlor. It was
shrouded in the gloom of almost utter darkness. The heavy silken curtains
fell drooping with their costliness to the velvet carpet, and a faint,
sickening odor of withering water lilies pervaded the close atmosphere.
Water lilies!--they were Alexandrine's favorite flowers.

Margie stopped by the door until her eyes became accustomed to the
gloom, and then she saw that the centre of the room was occupied by a
table, on which lay some rigid object--strangely long, and still, and
angular--covered with a drapery of black velvet, looped up by dying water
lilies.

Still controlled by that feeling of strange awe, Margie stole along to
the table and lifted the massive cover. She saw beneath it the pale, dead
face of Alexandrine Trevlyn. She dropped the pall, uttered a cry of
horror, and sank upon a chair. The door unclosed noiselessly, and Mrs.
Lee, the mother of the dead woman, came in.

"Oh, Margie! Margie!" she cried, "pity me! My heart is broken! My
darling! My only child is taken from me!"

It was long before she grew composed enough to give any explanation of
the tragedy--for tr