ned upon us with a
warning gesture which I hardly think we needed, and led us down a narrow
hall flanked by openings corresponding to those we had noted from below.
At the furthest one he paused and, beckoning us to his side, pointed
across the lobby into the large writing-room which occupied the better
part of the mezzanine floor.

We saw people standing in various attitudes of grief and dismay about a
couch, one end of which only was visible to us at the moment. The doctor
had just joined them, and every head was turned towards him and every
body bent forward in anxious expectation. I remember the face of one
grey haired old man. I shall never forget it. He was probably her
father. Later, I knew him to be so. Her face, even her form, was
entirely hidden from us, but as we watched (I have often thought with
what heartless curiosity) a sudden movement took place in the whole
group--and for one instant a startling picture presented itself to our
gaze. Miss Challoner was stretched out upon the couch. She was dressed
as she came from dinner, in a gown of ivory-tinted satin, relieved at
the breast by a large bouquet of scarlet poinsettias. I mention this
adornment, because it was what first met and drew our eyes and the eyes
of every one about her, though the face, now quite revealed, would seem
to have the greater attraction. But the cause was evident and one not to
be resisted. The doctor was pointing at these poinsettias in horror
and with awful meaning, and though we could not hear his words, we knew
almost instinctively, both from his attitude and the cries which burst
from the lips of those about him, that something more than broken petals
and disordered laces had met his eyes; that blood was there--slowly
oozing drops from the heart--which for some reason had escaped all eyes
till now.

Miss Challoner was dead, not from unsuspected disease, but from the
violent attack of some murderous weapon; As the realisation of this
brought fresh panic and bowed the old father's head with emotions even
more bitter than those of grief, I turned a questioning look up at
George's face.

It was fixed with a purpose I had no trouble in understanding.

II. "I KNOW THE MAN"

Yet he made no effort to detain Mr. Slater, when that gentleman, under
this renewed excitement, hastily left us. He was not the man to rush
into anything impulsively, and not even the presence of murder could
change his ways.

"I want to feel sure of