orthodox heroine;
but, her thoughts are very orthodox, as heroines go. She is wondering
why Doctor Heath has not made his second appearance at Wardour Place,
when she so plainly signified her desire to see him there, again, and
soon.

Not that she had bidden him come in so many words; but, had she not
looked? had she not smiled? Not that she felt any special interest in
Dr. Heath; oh, not at all, only she was bored, and worried, and wanted
to be amused, and entertained; and Clifford Heath _could_ be
entertaining.

Sybil Lamotte's unopened note lies on the dressing table. She has
pondered over that half the afternoon, and has wondered, and guessed, at
its meaning; turning over in her mind every explanation probable, and
possible, but satisfied with none. She is wonderfully lacking in
curiosity, for a woman, but for this she might not have withstood the
temptation to anticipate the sunset; for she never has felt so curious
about a mystery in her life.

She turns abruptly from the window, and her eyes fall upon Sybil's note,
her thoughts return to it again. But it is not quite sunset.

Picking it up, she re-reads for the twentieth time the puzzling lines,
then she throws it down impatiently.

"Bah!" she exclaims; "You wretched little white enigma! you are tempting
me to forget myself. I shall flee from the fascination of your
mysterious face, for I am quite certain that Joshua's chariot is abroad,
and the sun is standing still in the skies."

So saying, she goes out, closing and locking the dressing-room door, and
descends the stately stairs; at their foot she pauses in full view of
the entrance, for there, hat in hand, appears the subject of her recent
discontent, Doctor Heath. Surely there must be something depressing in
the atmosphere, Constance thinks, as she goes forward to meet him; for
his face wears a grave, troubled look not usually seen there.

"Oh, Doctor Heath," she says, half reproachfully, and fabricating after
the manner of her sex, "here I have been trying to evoke from my 'inner
consciousness' what manner of man your great detective might be. You
barely introduced him, and then you flitted; and I do so much dislike
the 'To be continued' style."

"So do I," he replies, soberly, as he follows her into the drawing room.
"So much that I shall make the story I have come to tell, as brief as
maybe. Miss Wardour, have you heard any news from the town--since
noon?"

"Not a word," moving across the room