a certain young Englishman--But
that is apart from this story.

I reached home, went up to my rooms, and had a supper. It was to
console myself; I am obliged to console myself scientifically once in a
while. I was walking up and down afterward, smoking and feeling
somewhat better, when my eye fell upon the pasteboard box. I took it
up; on the cover was written an address which showed that my visitor
must have walked a long distance in order to see me: "A. Crief."--"A
Grief," I thought; "and so she is. I positively believe she has brought
all this trouble upon me: she has the evil eye." I took out the
manuscript and looked at it. It was in the form of a little volume, and
clearly written; on the cover was the word "Armor" in German text, and,
underneath, a pen-and-ink sketch of a helmet, breastplate, and shield.

"Grief certainly needs armor," I said to myself, sitting down by the
table and turning over the pages. "I may as well look over the thing
now; I could not be in a worse mood." And then I began to read.

Early the next morning Simpson took a note from me to the given
address, returning with the following reply: "No; I prefer to come to
you; at four; A. CRIEF." These words, with their three semicolons, were
written in pencil upon a piece of coarse printing-paper, but the
handwriting was as clear and delicate as that of the manuscript in ink.

"What sort of a place was it, Simpson?"

"Very poor, sir, but I did not go all the way up. The elder person came
down, sir, took the note, and requested me to wait where I was."

"You had no chance, then, to make inquiries?" I said, knowing full well
that he had emptied the entire neighborhood of any information it might
possess concerning these two lodgers.

"Well, sir, you know how these foreigners will talk, whether one wants
to hear or not. But it seems that these two persons have been there but
a few weeks; they live alone, and are uncommonly silent and reserved.
The people round there call them something that signifies 'the Madames
American, thin and dumb.'"

At four the "Madames American" arrived; it was raining again, and they
came on foot under their old umbrella. The maid waited in the anteroom,
and Miss Grief was ushered into my bachelor's parlor. I had thought
that I should meet her with great deference; but she looked so forlorn
that my deference changed to pity. It was the woman that impressed me
then, more than the writer--the fragile, nerveless body m