get
about."

"What," asked Louisa placidly, "mayn't be true? Some one said just now
that Philip de Mountford has been murdered."

"Well," murmured one of the ladies, "they say it was Mr. de Mountford;
but they can't be sure, can they?"

The group was dissolving: almost, it seemed, as if it had vanished
into thin air. When Louisa first heard them talking there were about a
dozen men and women, a brilliant throng of gaily plumaged birds; now
the ladies remembered that they wanted to hear the latest infant
prodigy who had been engaged to entertain the guests at the
post-dinner reception to-night, and the men too, feeling uncomfortable
and awkward, made good their escape.

People--the pleasure-loving people of to-day--have no use for latent
tragedy. Excitement, yes! and drama; but only from the secure distance
of a private seat at an Old Bailey trial. The murder of Philip de
Mountford could be discussed with quite an amount of enjoyment between
a dinner party and a ball supper, but not in Louisa Harris's presence!
By Gad! too much of a good thing you know!

Within a very few minutes Louisa found herself almost alone, just the
one or two near her to whom she had directly spoken
and--fortunately--Colonel Harris in the door-way, come to look for his
daughter.

"The infant with the violin," he said as soon as he caught sight of
Louisa, "is just finishing his piece, poor little rat! You promised
you would sing next, Lou. What songs have you got?"

"I was just making a selection when you came, father. What would you
like me to sing?"

With an unexpressed sigh of relief the last two of the original group
of gossips dwindled away into the reception room beyond,
congratulating themselves on having successfully engineered their
exit.

"Dooced awkward, don't you know, Miss Harris asking questions."

"I suppose she doesn't realize----"

"She will soon enough----"

"She ought to have broken off her engagement long ago."

"Isn't it awful?--Poor thing."

Louisa, left alone with her father, could allow her nerves to ease
their fearful tension. She had no need to hide from him the painful
quiver of her lips, or the anxious frown across her brow.

"Do you know," she asked, "anything about this awful business,
father?"

"There's a lot of gossip," he replied: his voice was not only gruff
but hoarse, which showed that he was strangely moved.

"But," she insisted, "some truth in the gossip?"

"They say Philip de Mountf