picked my way over her long train. The next moment I had dropped
ices, tray and all. I bad come face to face with her and seen
that she was dead. She had been stabbed and robbed. There was no
diamond on her breast, but there was blood."

A hubbub of disordered sentences seasoned with horrified cries
followed this simple description. Then a general movement took
place in the direction of the alcove, during which Mr. Durand
stooped to my ear and whispered:

"We must get out of this. You are not strong enough to stand such
excitement. Don't you think we can escape by the window over
there?"

"What, without wraps and in such a snowstorm?" I protested.
"Besides, uncle will be looking for me. He came with me, you
know."

An expression of annoyance, or was it perplexity, crossed Mr.
Durand's face, and he made a movement as if to leave me.

"I must go," he began, but stopped at my glance of surprise and
assumed a different air--one which became him very much better.
"Pardon me, dear, I will take you to your uncle. This--this
dreadful tragedy, interrupting so gay a scene, has quite upset
me. I was always sensitive to the sight, the smell, even to the
very mention of the word blood."

So was I, but not to the point of cowardice. But then I had not
just come from an interview with the murdered woman. Her glances,