"He hasn't any daughter," I said, and stepped back to the hooded figure
I had been too absorbed in our quest to notice.

It was Miss Apperthwaite.

She had thrown a loose cloak over her head and shoulders; but enveloped
in it as she was, and crested and epauletted with white, I knew her at
once. There was no mistaking her, even in a blizzard.

She caught my hand with a strong, quick pressure, and, bending her head
to mine, said, close to my ear:

"I heard everything that man said in our hallway. You left the library
door open when you called Mr. Dowden out."

"So," I returned, maliciously, "you--you couldn't HELP following!"

She released my hand--gently, to my surprise.

"Hush," she whispered. "He's saying something."

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Beasley again--and stopped again.

Dowden's voice sounded hysterically in my right ear. (Miss Apperthwaite
had whispered in my left.) "The only speech he's ever made in his
life--and he's stuck!"

But Beasley wasn't: he was only deliberating.