"I mean," said I, with a secret compunction I strove in vain to
subdue, "that Mr. Barrows' betrothed could not survive his terrible
fate--that she died a few hours since, and will be buried in the
same grave as her lover."

"His betrothed?" Young Mr. Pollard had risen to his feet, and was
actually staggering under the shock of his emotions. "I did not know
he had any betrothed. I thought she had jilted him----"

"It is another woman," I broke in, jealous for my poor dead Ada's
fame. "The woman he was formerly engaged to never loved him; but
this one----" I could not finish the sentence. My own agitation was
beginning to master me.

He looked at me, horrified, and I could have sworn the hair rose on
his forehead.

"What was her name?" he asked. "Is it--is it any one I know?" Then,
as if suddenly conscious that he was betraying too keen an emotion
for the occasion, pitiful as it was, he forced his lips into a
steadier curve, and quietly said: "After what has happened here, I
am naturally overcome by a circumstance so coincident with our own
trouble."

"Naturally," I assented with a bow, and again felt that secret
distrust warring with a new feeling that was not unlike compassion.

"Her name is Ada Reynolds," I continued, remembering his last
question. "She lived----"