burst in upon her, what could I say? I could not ask her to tell me the story—indeed, I would not even know her if I met her face to face. I must see the photograph, first, which Curtiss had promised to leave for me at the hotel.

Besides, I asked myself—and in this matter, I confess, I was very willing to be convinced—would it not be wiser, more merciful, to wait till morning, till the first shock was past, till she had time to rally a little, to get her calmness back? Then, I could dare to approach her, to show her how she had wronged Burr Curtiss, to persuade her to see him. It were better for both her and Curtiss that they should not meet for a day or two; they would have need of all their courage; all their self-control, for that meeting must reveal a secret which it chilled me to think of. At least, I would try to force no entrance to the cottage now. I shrank from any show of violence. Curtiss would countenance nothing of that sort.

To approach the cottage now, while the maid was within, would be a tactical error—would be to court failure. She could easily prevent my seeing her mistress—she would, no doubt, shut the door in my face. Why should I show her that I suspected Miss Lawrence's place of refuge? Why put her on her guard and urge the fugitive to farther flight? How much wiser to wait until the maid was absent, till I could make sure of seeing Miss Lawrence, and then calmly and clearly lay the case before her. Yes, decidedly, I would wait. I even found it in my heart to regret that I had already showed the maid so much of my suspicions. I would better have kept them to myself.

Convinced by this last argument, I made my way back to the street; and as I passed the Lawrence grounds I was impressed again by their extent and excellent order. At the front gate a curious crowd still lingered, staring at the silent, darkened house, whose drawn blinds gave no hint of life within, or listening to the knowing gossip of three or four alert young fellows whom I recognised as reporters. There was still a policeman there, and he was quite willing to be drawn into talk—to tell all he knew, and much that he did not know.

"Who lives in that cottage back yonder?" I asked, after an unimportant question or two.

"The Kingdon sisters," he answered. "The youngest one works in the Lawrence house—a maid or something."

The crowd had collected about us and was listening with ears intent; I caught a quick glitter of interest in the eyes of the reporters; so I ended the talk abruptly 

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