When, after a long time, during which the muffled weeping never
ceased, he had it open an inch or two, he leaned forward and peeped
within.

It was a bed-chamber, and, crouching on the floor near the fireplace,
in front of a low arm-chair, her head hidden on her arms and resting
on the seat of the chair, was the figure of a girl. She had made no
preparations for retiring, and by the frock she wore Dunn recognized
her as the girl he had seen on the veranda bidding good-bye to John
Clive.

The sound of her weeping was very pitiful, her attitude was full of
an utter and poignant despair, there was something touching in the
extreme in the utter abandonment to grief shown by this young and
lovely creature who seemed framed only for joy and laughter.

The stern features and hard eyes of the unseen watcher softened,
then all at once they grew like tempered steel again.

For on the mantlepiece, just above where the weeping girl crouched,
stood a photograph--the photograph of a young and good-looking,
gaily-smiling man. Across it, in a boyish and somewhat unformed
hand, was written

"Devotedly yours,
Charley Wright."

It was this photograph that had caught Dunn's eyes. Both it and
the writing and the signature he recognized, and his look was very
stern, his eyes as cold as death itself, as slowly, slowly he pushed