in the hall--one of the tall footmen pathetically protesting, and a
shrill female voice refusing to listen to those plaintive protests. Then
there suddenly fell peace.

"After a storm there cometh a calm," Mr. Walraven said. "Miss Oleander,
shall we move on? Well, Johnson, what is it?"

For Johnson, the taller of the two tall footmen, stood before them
gazing beseechingly at his master.

"It's a woman, sir, all wet and dirty, and horrid to look at. She says
she will see you, and there she stands, and Wilson nor me we can't do
nothing with her. If you don't come she says she'll walk up here and
make you come. Them," said Johnson, plaintively, "were her own
language."

Blanche Oleander, gazing up at her companion's face, saw it changing to
a startled, dusky white.

"Some beggar--some troublesome tramp, I dare say." But he dropped her
arm abruptly as he said it. "Excuse me a moment, Miss Oleander. I had
better see her to prevent noise. Now, then, Johnson."

Mr. Johnson led the way down a grand, sweeping staircase, rich in
gilding and carving, through a paved and vaulted hall, and out into
a lofty vestibule.

There a woman stood, dripping wet and wretchedly clad, as
miserable-looking a creature as ever walked the bad city streets. The
flare of the gas-jets shone full upon her--upon a haggard face lighted