Miss Lacey sank back in her chair and Dunham sprang to his feet as the
girlish voice rang out, and a black-clothed figure stood before them.
She had been standing behind one of the heavy hangings watching the
passing in the seething street when the two entered the room, and until
now had listened tense and motionless.

For a silent moment the visitors faced the girl, whose crop of short,
curly hair vibrated, and whose eyes sent forth sparks of blue fire as
she stood there, indignation incarnate. Her glance roved from one to
the other, and Miss Martha pinched herself to make certain that she had
not fallen into a bad dream, while Dunham crimsoned under the burning
gaze.

"Syl--Sylvia, is that you!" exclaimed Miss Lacey unsteadily.

The girl scorned to reply. White and accusing she stood. Miss Martha
looked up at her companion appealingly. "Mr.--Mr.--Sir Walter--Oh, I
don't know your name!"

The young girl half closed her eyes and looked down on her aunt with a
strange expression.

"Do you," she asked slowly, "talk like that about your dead brother
even to persons whose names you haven't learned?"

"Great Scott!" thought Dunham, whose crimson was fast becoming prickly
heat. "What have I got into!"

"I know this gentleman--I do, Sylvia," returned Miss Martha earnestly.
"He is your Uncle Calvin's--yes, your Uncle Calvin's trusted friend."

"I should judge so," returned the girl, fixing the unhappy Dunham with
her gaze. "I should judge his position to be very nearly one of the
family. Does Uncle Calvin know his name?"

Dunham had for some years been aware that his height was six feet. Now
he appeared to himself to be shrinking together until he was twin to
his employer. It would be a fortunate moment to present his card to
these ladies! For the first time in his life he found his hands in his
way.

"The situation is very peculiar--very," stammered Miss Martha
nervously, "and I'm very sorry, very sorry indeed that you were
listening."

"Oh, so am I!" ejaculated the girl, the angry tenseness of her face
changing and her voice breaking as she threw up her hands in a
despairing gesture. The pathos of the black figure struck through
Dunham's mortification.

"I wouldn't have hurt your feelings for anything," pursued Miss Martha
earnestly.

"Wouldn't you?"

"No; and I wish you would believe it and not look at me so strangely. I
never had hysterics in my life, but I feel as if I might have them
right off, if y