embarrass you with any more tears." She brushed her eyes with a rapid
movement.

Warrington's success as a dramatist was due largely to his interest in
all things that passed under his notice. Nothing was too trivial to
observe. The tragic threads of human life, which escaped the eyes of
the passing many or were ignored by them, always aroused his interest
and attention; and more than once he had picked up one of these
threads and followed it to the end. Out of these seemingly
insignificant things he often built one of those breathless,
nerve-gripping climaxes which had, in a few years' time, made him
famous. In the present case he believed that he had stumbled upon
something worthy his investigation. This handsome young woman, richly
dressed, who dared not go home, who had jewels but no money--there
was some mystery surrounding her, and he determined to find out what
it was. And then, besides, for all that he was worldly, he was young
and still believed in his Keats.

"If, as you say, there is no one at your home, why do you fear to go
there?" he asked, with some remnant of caution.

"It is the horror of the place," shuddering; "the horror!" And indeed,
at that moment, her face expressed horror.

"Is it some one dead?" lowering his voice.

"Dead?" with a flash of cold anger in her eyes. "Yes--to me, to truth,
to honor; dead to everything that should make life worth the living.
Oh, it is impossible to say more in this place, to tell you here what
has happened this day to rob me of all my tender illusions. This