embarrassment, that all doubt of the propriety of his intrusion
vanished from the old man's mind, and with the ease of one only too
well accustomed to such scenes, he kindly remarked:

"Am I speaking to Mrs. Watkins of Nashville?"

"You are," she faltered, with another rapid change of colour. "I
--I am just leaving. I hope you will excuse me. I--"

"I wish I could," he smiled, hobbling in and confronting her
quietly in her own room. "But circumstances make it quite imperative
that I should have a few words with you on a topic which need not
be disagreeable to you, and probably will not be. My name is Gryce.
This will probably convey nothing to you, but I am not unknown to the
management below, and my years must certainly give you confidence in
the propriety of my errand. A beautiful and charming young woman
died here last night. May I ask if you knew her?"

"I?" She was trembling violently now, but whether with indignation
or some other more subtle emotion, it would be difficult to say.
"No, I'm from the South. I never saw the young lady. Why do you
ask? I do not recognise your right. I--I--"

Certainly her emotion must be that of simple indignation. Mr. Gryce
made one of his low bows, and propping himself against the table he
stood before, remarked civilly:--

"I had rather not force my rights. The matter is so very ordinary.
I did not suppose you knew Miss Challoner, but one must begin
somehow, and as you came in at the very moment when the alarm was