tales which were always clear and wonderful in her head but more or
less opaque when she attempted to transfer them to paper. A secret
society? Vengeance? An echo of the war?

"Johnny Two-Hawks," she murmured aloud. "And he hopes we'll never
meet again!"

There was a mirror over the sink, and she threw a glance into it.
Very well; if he thought like that about it.

Here the doorbell tinkled. That would be the faithful janitor. She
ran to the door.

"Whadjuh wanta see me about, Miz Conover?"

"What has happened to old Mr. Gregory?"

"Him? Why, some amb'lance fellers carted him off this afternoon.
Didn't know nawthin' was the matter with 'im until I runs into them
in the hall."

"He'd been hurt?"

"Couldn't say, miz. He was on a stretcher when I seen 'im. Under
a sheet."

"But he might have been dead!"

"Nope. I ast 'em, an' they said a shock of some sort."