y we can make our way in there, and if we can,
Slater will tell us all we want to know."

Slater was the assistant manager of the Clermont, and one of George's
oldest friends.

"Then hurry," said I. "I am being crushed here."

George did hurry, and in a few minutes we were before the rear entrance
of the great hotel. There was a mob gathered here also, but it was
neither so large nor so rough as the one on Broadway. Yet I doubt if we
should have been able to work our way through it if Slater had not,
at that very instant, shown himself in the doorway, in company with an
officer to whom he was giving some final instructions. George caught
his eye as soon as he was through with the man, and ventured on what I
thought a rather uncalled for plea.

"Let us in, Slater," he begged. "My wife feels a little faint; she has
been knocked about so by the crowd."

The manager glanced at my face, and shouted to the people around us to
make room. I felt myself lifted up, and that is all I remember of
this part of our adventure. For, affected more than I realised by
the excitement of the event, I no sooner saw the way cleared for
our entrance than I made good my husband's words by fainting away in
earnest.

When I came to, it was suddenly and with perfect recognition of my
surroundings. The small reception room to which I had been taken was one
I had often visited, and its familiar features did not hold my attention
for a moment. What I did see and welcome was my husband's face bending
close over me, and to him I spoke first. My words must have sounded
oddly to those about. "Have they told you anything about it?" I asked.
"Did he--"

A quick pressure on my arm silenced me, and then I noticed that we were
not alone. Two or three ladies stood near, watching me, and one had
evidently been using some restorative, for she held a small vinaigrette
in her hand. To this lady, George made haste to introduce me, and from
her I presently learned the cause of the disturbance in the hotel.

It was of a somewhat different nature from what I expected, and during
the recital, I could not prevent myself from casting furtive and
inquiring glances at George.

Edith, the well-known daughter of Moses Challoner, had fallen suddenly
dead on the floor of the mezzanine. She was not known to have been in
poor health, still less in danger of a fatal attack, and the shock was
consequently great to her friends, several of whom were in the building.
Inde