"Have they carried her to her room?" I eagerly inquired, glancing
fearfully up at the large semi-circular openings overlooking us from
the place where she had fallen.

"Not yet. Mr. Hammond insists upon waiting for the coroner." (Mr.
Hammond was the proprietor of the hotel.) "She is lying on one of
the big couches near which she fell. If you like, I can give you a
glimpse of her. She looks beautiful. It's terrible to think that
she is dead."

I don't know why we consented. We were under a spell, I think. At
all events, we accepted his offer and followed him up a narrow
staircase open to very few that night. At the top, he turned upon
us with a warning gesture which I hardly think we needed, and led
us down a narrow hall flanked by openings corresponding to those we
had noted from below. At the furthest one he paused and, beckoning
us to his side, pointed across the lobby into the large writing-room
which occupied the better part of the mezzanine floor.

We saw people standing in various attitudes of grief and dismay
about a couch, one end of which only was visible to us at the
moment. The doctor had just joined them, and every head was turned
towards him and every body bent forward in anxious expectation. I
remember the face of one grey haired old man. I shall never forget
it. He was probably her father. Later, I knew him to be so. Her
face, even her form, was entirely hidden from us, but as we watched
(I have often thought with what heartless curiosity) a sudden
movement took place in the whole group--and for one instant a
startling picture presented itself to our gaze. Miss Challoner