the very place we had anticipated. I felt my husband’s arm press me closer to his side as we worked our way towards the entrance, and presently caught a warning sound from his lips as the oaths and confused cries everywhere surrounding us were broken here and there by articulate words and we heard:     

       “Is it murder?”      

       “The beautiful Miss Challoner!”      

       “A millionairess in her own right!”      

       “Killed, they say.”      

       “No, no! suddenly dead; that’s all.”      

       “George, what shall we do?” I managed to cry into my husband’s ear.     

       “Get out of this. There is no chance of our reaching that door, and I can’t have you standing round any longer in this icy slush.”      

       “But—but is it right?” I urged, in an importunate whisper. “Should we go home while he—”      

       “Hush! My first duty is to you. We will go make our visit; but to-morrow—”      

       “I can’t wait till to-morrow,” I pleaded, wild to satisfy my curiosity in regard to an event in which I naturally felt a keen personal interest.     

       He drew me as near to the edge of the crowd as he could. There were new murmurs all about us.     

       “If it’s a case of heart-failure, why send for the police?” asked one.     

       “It is better to have an officer or two here,” grumbled another.     

       “Here comes a cop.”      

       “Well, I’m going to vamoose.”      

       “I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” whispered George, who, for all his bluster was as curious as myself. “We will try the rear door where there are fewer persons. Possibly we can make our way in there, and if we can, Slater will tell us all we want to know.”      

       Slater was the assistant manager of the Clermont, and one of George’s oldest friends.     

       “Then hurry,” said I. “I am being crushed here.”      

       George 

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