er and had left town very
hurriedly for her home. That her mother was coming to meet her and would
probably arrive here very soon. That when this occurred I was to notify
her; but if a gentleman called instead, I was to be very careful not to
admit that any such person as herself was in the house. Indeed, to avoid
any such possibility she prayed that her name might be left off the
register--a favour which I was slow in granting her, but which I finally
did, as you can see for yourselves."

"Oh!" came in indignant exclamation from the young woman before them. "I
understand my position now. This man has a bad conscience. He has
something to hide, or he would not take to lying about little things
like that. I never asked him to allow me to leave my name off the
register. On the contrary I wrote my name in it and my mother's name,
too. Let him bring the book here and you will see."

"We have seen," responded the coroner. "We looked in the register
ourselves. Your names are not there."

The flush of indignation which had crimsoned her cheeks faded till she
looked as startling and individual in her pallor as she had the moment
before in her passionate bloom.

"Not there?" fell from her lips in a frozen monotone as her eyes grew
fixed upon the faces before her and her hand went groping around for
some support.

Mr. Hammersmith approached with a chair.

"Sit," he whispered. Then, as she sank slowly into an attitude of
repose, he added gently, "You shall have every consideration. Only tell
the truth, the exact truth without any heightening from your
imagination, and, above all, don't be frightened."

She may have heard his words, but she gave no sign of comprehending
them. She was following the movements of the landlord, who had slipped
out to procure the register, and now stood holding it out toward the
coroner.

"Let her see for herself," he suggested, with a bland, almost fatherly,
air.

Doctor Golden took the book and approached Miss Demarest.

"Here is a name very unlike yours," he pointed out, as her eye fell on
the page he had opened to. "Annette Colvin, Lansing, Michigan."

"That is not my name or writing," said she.

"There is room below it for your name and that of your mother, but the
space is blank, do you see?"

"Yes, yes, I see," she admitted. "Yet I wrote my name in the book! Or is
it all a monstrous dream!"

The coroner returned the book to the landlord.

"Is this your only book?" he asked.