y, examining them again and
again, for he thought it barely possible that the skin might have been
cracked somewhere by the cutting March wind, and might have bled a
little, but he could not find the least sign of such a thing.

When he was finally convinced that he could not account for the stain
he had now washed off, he filled his old pipe thoughtfully and sat
down in a big shabby arm-chair beside the table to think over other
questions more easy of solution. For he was a philosophical man, and
when he could not understand a matter he was able to put it away in a
safe place, to be kept until he got more information about it.

The next morning, amidst the flamboyant accounts of the subterranean
explosion, and of the heroic conduct of Madame Margarita da Cordova,
the famous Primadonna, in checking a dangerous panic at the Opera,
all the papers found room for a long paragraph about Miss Ida H.
Bamberger, who had died at the theatre in consequence of the shock
her nerves had received, and who was to have married the celebrated
capitalist and philanthropist, Mr. Van Torp, only two days later.
There were various dramatic and heart-rending accounts of her death,
and most of them agreed that she had breathed her last amidst her
nearest and dearest, who had been with her all the evening.

But Mr. Griggs read these paragraphs thoughtfully, for he remembered
that he had found her lying in a heap behind a red baize door which
his memory could easily identify.

After all, the least misleading notice was the one in the column of
deaths:--

BAMBERGER.--On Wednesday, of heart-failure from shock, IDA HAMILTON,
only child of HANNAH MOON by her former marriage with ISIDORE
BAMBERGER. California papers please copy.

CHAPTER II

In the lives of professionals, whatever their profession may be, the
ordinary work of the day makes very little impression on the memory,
whereas a very strong and lasting one is often made by circumstances
which a man of leisure or a woman of the world might barely notice,
and would soon forget. In Margaret's life there were but two sorts of
days, those on which she was to sing and those on which she was at
liberty. In the one case she had a cutlet at five o'clock, and supper
when she came home; in the other, she dined like other people and went
to bed early. At the end of a season in New York, the evenings on
which she had sung all seemed to have been exactly alike; the people
had always applau