for the day, urgent business in New Hampshire."

Marise looked about her helplessly. "May I sit down for a moment?"

The young stenographer ran, limping and eager, to offer her a chair, and
then, shyly, swung his swivel chair towards her, not wishing to go back
to his work, uncertain what to say to his employer's wife.

"When will Mr. Crittenden be back?" asked Marise, although she knew the
answer.

"No later than tonight, he said," answered the stenographer. "He spoke
particularly about coming back because of Miss Hetty Allen's funeral."

"Yes, of course," said Marise.

There was nothing more to be said, she knew that, nothing more to be
done, until Neale came back. But it seemed physically impossible for her
to live until then, with the clutch in her throat.

She ought to get up now, at once, and go back to Cousin Hetty's. The
Powers were waiting for her return. But her consternation at finding
Neale really gone was a blow from which she needed a breathing time to
recover. She couldn't have it so. She could never endure a whole day
with this possibility like a threatening powder-mine under her feet,
ready to go off and bring her inner world to ruin and despair. She put
her hand out to take her umbrella and struggled up.

"Any message to leave for Mr. Crittenden?" asked the stenographer,
seeing her ready to go.

She shook her head. Her eye fell on the waste-paper basket beside the
desk. On one of the empty envelopes, torn in two, the words, "Return to
C.K. Lowder," stood out clearly. She turned away and stood motionless,
one hand at her temple. She was thinking to herself, "This is simply
incredible. There is some monstrous mistake. If I could only think of a
way to find it out before it kills me."

She became aware that the young cripple was looking at her anxiously,
and saw in his startled, agitated face a reflection of what hers must
be. She made an effort to speak quietly, and heard herself say, "Do you
happen to remember if Mr. Crittenden was alone as he drove away?"

"Oh no," said the other. "He had had someone with him ever since the
afternoon train came in yesterday. Mr. Crittenden drove the car in
himself to the Ashley station to meet him. Somebody here on business."

"What sort of a man, do you remember?" asked Marise.

"Well, a clean-shaven man, with a queer thin long mouth, like the
pictures of William Jennings Bryan's. And he talked out of one corner of
it, the way . . . see here, Mrs. Critt