The girl's pretty face crimsoned, and then grew pale.

"I--had no idea--she was--a friend of yours, Mr. Grant," she stammered.

"She used to be a friend, but I have not set eyes on her during the past
three years--until last night."

"Last night!"

"After you had gone home. I was doing some work, and, having occasion to
consult a book, lighted a candle, and put it in the small window near the
bookcase. Then I fancied I saw a woman's face, _her_ face, peering in,
and was so obsessed by the notion that I went outside, but everything was
so still that I persuaded myself I was mistaken."

"Oh, is that what it was?"

Grant threw out his hands in a gesture that was eloquent of some feeling
distinctly akin to despair.

"You don't usually speak in enigmas, Doris," he said. "What in the world
do you mean by saying:--'Oh, is that what it was?'"

The girl--she was only nineteen, and never before had aught of tragic
mystery entered her sheltered life--seemed to recover her
self-possession with a quickness and decision that were admirable.

"There is no enigma," she said calmly. "My room overlooks your lawn.
Before retiring for the night I went to the window, just to have another