day, as she dragged her father through picture galleries, she found
herself looking forward to another morning, wondering, eager.

But on the following morning Sadie Haight, the maid through whom
this odd correspondence was passing, had no letter to deliver. The
news rather disappointed the daughter of Texas. At noon she insisted
on returning to the hotel for luncheon, though, as her father pointed
out, they were far from the Carlton at the time. Her journey was
rewarded. Letter number two was waiting; and as she read she gasped.

DEAR LADY AT THE CARLTON: I am writing this at three in the morning,
with London silent as the grave, beyond our garden. That I am so
late in getting to it is not because I did not think of you all day
yesterday; not because I did not sit down at my desk at seven last
evening to address you. Believe me, only the most startling, the
most appalling accident could have held me up.

That most startling, most appalling accident has happened.

I am tempted to give you the news at once in one striking and
terrible sentence. And I could write that sentence. A tragedy,
wrapped in mystery as impenetrable as a London fog, has befallen
our quiet little house in Adelphi Terrace. In their basement
room the Walters family, sleepless, overwhelmed, sit silent; on
the dark stairs outside my door I hear at intervals the tramp of
men on unhappy missions--But no; I must go back to the very start
of it all:

Last night I had an early dinner at Simpson's, in the Strand--so
early that I was practically alone in the restaurant. The letter