burst,--"why couldn't she have amused herself in her own
clothes? That's what I want to know!"

"And then? What did you do?" breathed Mrs. De Peyster.

"When it came out three days later that it was you, I was so--so
frightened that I didn't know what to do. I didn't dare deny the
report, for that would have been to expose you. And I didn't dare
cable to you that it was all a mistake and that I was all right,
for that would have been just as bad. Perhaps I might have acted
differently, but I--well, I ran away. I crossed to London with your
trunks. There I learned that--that they were sending your remains
home. I realized I had to get you word somehow, and I realized the
only way was for me to come and tell you. So I sold some more of your
gowns, and just caught the Mauretania, and here I am."

So ending, Olivetta, as though her bones had melted, subsided into
a gelatinous heap of dejection, dabbing her crimson eyes with a
handkerchief already saturated with liquid woe.

"It's a relief to know it wasn't you," said Mrs. De Peyster.

"I'm sure--it's kind of you--to say so," snuffled Olivetta gratefully.

"But, aside from your being safe, our situation is unchanged," said
Mrs. De Peyster in tremulous, awe-stricken tone. "For that--that
person is coming here just the same!"

"I know. The horrid interloper!"

"She may be here any minute," said Mrs. De Peyster. "What are we going
to do?"

"We must think of something quick," spoke up Matilda nervously. "For
it's almost time for your funeral, ma'am, and after that--"

"I've been thinking all the voyage over," broke in Olivetta. "And I
could think of only one plan."

"And that?" Mrs. De Peyster eagerly inquired.

There was an excited, desperate light in Olivetta's flooding eyes.

"Couldn't you manage, in some way, while nobody is looking, to slip
into that Frenchwoman's place; and then, before the ceremony was over,
you could sit up and say you'd been in a cataleptic fit. Such things
have happened. I've read about them."

"Absurd, Olivetta! Quite absurd!" quavered Mrs. De Peyster.

"I dare say it is," agreed Olivetta, subsiding again into her limp
misery. "Oh, why did I ever go to Paris! I hate the place!"

"Don't give way; think!" commanded Mrs. De Peyster, who was in a
condition not far removed from Olivetta's. "Think, Matilda!"

"Yes, ma'am," said Matilda obediently.

"You think, Caroline," whimpered Olivetta. "You always had such a
superior intellect, an