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my
attention for a moment. What I did see and welcome was my husband's
face bending close over me, and to him I spoke first. My words must
have sounded oddly to those about. "Have they told you anything about
it?" I asked. "Did he--"
A quick pressure on my arm silenced me, and then I noticed that we
were not alone. Two or three ladies stood near, watching me, and one
had evidently been using some restorative, for she held a small
vinaigrette in her hand. To this lady, George made haste to introduce
me, and from her I presently learned the cause of the disturbance in the
hotel.
It was of a somewhat different nature from what I expected, and during
the recital, I could not prevent myself from casting furtive and
inquiring glances at George.
Edith, the well-known daughter of Moses Challoner, had fallen
suddenly dead on the floor of the mezzanine. She was not known to
have been in poor health, still less in danger of a fatal attack, and the
shock was consequently great to her friends, several of whom were in
the building. Indeed, it was likely to prove a shock to the whole
community, for she had great claims to general admiration, and her
death must be regarded as a calamity to persons in all stations of life.
I realised this myself, for I had heard much of the young lady's private
virtues, as well as of her great beauty and distinguished manner. A
heavy loss, indeed, but--
"Was she alone when she fell?" I asked.
"Virtually alone. Some persons sat on the other side of the room,

reading at the big round table. They did not even hear her fall. They say
that the band was playing unusually loud in the musicians' gallery."
"Are you feeling quite well, now?"
"Quite myself," I gratefully replied as I rose slowly from the sofa. Then,
as my kind informer stepped aside, I turned to George with the
proposal we should go now.
He seemed as anxious as myself to leave and together we moved
towards the door, while the hum of excited comment which the
intrusion of a fainting woman had undoubtedly interrupted,
recommenced behind us till the whole room buzzed.
In the hall we encountered Mr. Slater, whom I have before mentioned.
He was trying to maintain order while himself in a state of great
agitation. Seeing us, he could not refrain from whispering a few words
into my husband's ear.
"The doctor has just gone up--her doctor, I mean. He's simply
dumbfounded. Says that she was the healthiest woman in New York
yesterday--I think--don't mention it, that he suspects something quite
different from heart failure."
"What do you mean?" asked George, following the assistant manager
down the broad flight of steps leading to the office. Then, as I pressed
up close to Mr. Slater's other side, "She was by herself, wasn't she, in
the half floor above?"
"Yes, and had been writing a letter. She fell with it still in her hand."
"Have they carried her to her room?" I eagerly inquired, glancing
fearfully up at the large semi-circular openings overlooking us from the
place where she had fallen.
"Not yet. Mr. Hammond insists upon waiting for the coroner." (Mr.
Hammond was the proprietor of the hotel.) "She is lying on one of the
big couches near which she fell. If you like, I can give you a glimpse of

her. She looks beautiful. It's terrible to think that she is dead."
I don't know why we consented. We were under a spell, I think. At all
events, we accepted his offer and followed him up a narrow staircase
open to very few that night. At the top, he turned upon us with a
warning gesture which I hardly think we needed, and led us down a
narrow hall flanked by openings corresponding to those we had noted
from below. At the furthest one he paused and, beckoning us to his side,
pointed across the lobby into the large writing-room which occupied
the better part of the mezzanine floor.
We saw people standing in various attitudes of grief and dismay about
a couch, one end of which only was visible to us at the moment. The
doctor had just joined them, and every head was turned towards him
and every body bent forward in anxious expectation. I remember the
face of one grey haired old man. I shall never forget it. He was
probably her father. Later, I knew him to be so. Her face, even her form,
was entirely hidden from us, but as we watched (I have often thought
with what heartless curiosity) a sudden movement took place in the
whole group--and for one instant a startling picture presented itself to
our gaze.