recalled a cab going somewhere, and then after what appeared to be an
interval of unconsciousness, she was walking, walking, instinctively
seeking the darkened streets, a satchel in her hand. Somewhere, footsore
and exhausted, she had sat upon a bench. Then came the inspiration to go
to the quiet house where her friend had stayed. The friend was far away;
she could remain there and not be found--stay until she had courage to
do the thing that had suggested itself as the only issue--to end it all.

But who had killed Victor Mahr? She gave a gasp of horror and held up
her hands--was there blood upon them? But how--how? Try as she would, no
answering picture of horror rose from her darkened mind. There was a
long, long period she could not account for--not yet; perhaps it would
come back, as these other terrible memories had returned to assail her.
She rolled over, hiding her face in the pillow, and groaned. The
twilight deepened; the shadows thickened in the room.

Suddenly she rose and began dressing in frenzied haste, overcoming her
bodily weakness with set purpose. Habit came to her rescue, for she was
hardly conscious of her movements. Her toilet completed, she began
hastily packing her traveling case, the impulse of flight urging her to
trembling speed. But when she lifted the bag its weight discouraged her.
Setting it down again upon the dressing table, she lowered her veil and
staggered into the dark hallway. Economy dictated delayed illumination
in the Mellen household. All was quiet. Somewhat reassured, she
descended the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail. The fever which had
relaxed for a brief interval renewed its grip, and filled with vague,
indescribable fears, she fled blindly. Something in her subconscious
brain suggested Victor Mahr, and it was toward Washington Square that
she bent her hurried steps.