very pathetic.

Her face was pale and drawn, and her eyes showed dark shadows, as of
utter weariness. She greeted me simply and glided to a nearby chair.

"It is kind of you to come, Mr. Calhoun," and the fine quality of her
voice and inflection betokened New England ancestry, or training. "As
you were here last night--you seem more like a friend than a mere
business acquaintance."

"I am very glad, Mrs. Schuyler," and I spoke sincerely, "that you look
on me like that. Please tell me anything you wish to, and command me
in any way I can serve you."

The speech sounded a little stilted, I knew, but there was something
about Ruth Schuyler that called for dignified address. She had the air
of bewildered helplessness that always appeals to a man, but she had,
too, a look of determination as to one who would do the right thing at
any cost of personal unpleasantness.

"It is all so dreadful," she began, and an insuppressible sob
threatened her speech. But she controlled it, and went on. "There is
so much to be gone through with and I am so ignorant of--of law
and--you know--of police doings."

"I understand," I returned, "and anything that you can be spared, rest
assured you shall be. But there is much ahead of you that will be hard
for you--very hard, and perhaps I can help you get ready for it."

"Will there be an inquest, and all that?" she whispered the word half