'" said Miss Holland, and flashed a smile of pretty
deference at the lawyer to console him for her total neglect of his
comment, "in McDougle Street. Who can he be?--he _is_ a man, I
suppose. And where is McDougle Street?"

St. George explained the location, and Mrs. Hastings fretfully
commented.

"I'm sure, Olivia," she said, "I think it is frightfully unwomanly
in you--"

"To take so much interest in my own murder?" Miss Holland asked in
amusement. "Aunt Dora, I'm going to do more: I suggest that you and
Mr. Frothingham and I go with Mr. St. George to this address in
McDougle Street--"

"My dear Olivia!" shrilled Mrs. Hastings, "it's in the very heart of
the Bowery--isn't it, Mr. St. John? And only think--"

It was as if Mrs. Hastings' frustrate words emerged in the fantastic
guise of her facial changes.

"No, it isn't quite the Bowery, Mrs. Hastings," St. George
explained, "though it won't look unlike."

"I wish I knew what Mr. Hastings would have done," his widow
mourned, "he always said to me: 'Medora, do only the necessary
thing.' Do you think this _is_ the necessary thing--with all the
frightful smells?"

"It is perfectly safe," ventured St. George, "is it not, Mr.
Frothingham?"

Mr. Frothingham bowed and tried to make non-partisanship seem a
tasteful resignation of his own will.

"I am at Mrs. Hastings' command," he said, waving both hands, once,
from the wrist.

"You know the place is really only a few blocks from Washington
Square," St. George submitted.

Mrs. Hastings brightened.

"Well, I have some friends in Washington Square," she said, "people
whom I think a great deal of, and always have. If you really feel,
Olivia--"

"I do," said Miss Holland simply, "and let us go now, Aunt Dora. The
brougham has been at the door since I came in. We may as well drive
there as anywhere, if Mr. St. George is willing."

"I shall be happy," said St. George sedately, longing to cry:
"Willing! Willing! Oh, Mrs. Hastings and Miss Holland--_willing_!"

Miss Holland and St. George and the lawyer were alone for a few
minutes while Mrs. Hastings rustled away for her bonnet. Miss
Holland sat where the afternoon light, falling through the corner
window, smote her hair to a glory of pale colour, and St. George's
eyes wandered to the glass through which the sun fell. It was a thin
pane of irregular pieces set in a design of quaint, meaningless
characters, in the centre of which was the figure of a sphinx,
cr