The woman stood staring as if fascinated at the towels which were lying
all over the floor. At that moment Nakwisi opened the door of the bath
and emerged in her dressing-gown, the open door behind her revealing
splashes of water all over the room and more towels on the floor. The
woman put her hand to her throat as if she were choking. She tried to
speak but evidently could not.

"Isn't this Mrs. Butler's house?" asked Nyoda, with growing misgiving.
"Don't you take in tourists when the hotel is filled?"

The woman swallowed convulsively and found her voice. "No," she said,
emphatically, "this is not Mrs. Butler's house, and I don't take in
tourists when the hotel is filled. This is the McAlpine residence and
my husband is State Senator McAlpine. My daughter is getting married
to-night and we have a houseful of wedding guests. We had two special
trains, one from Chicago and one from New York, bringing guests. If my
maid let you in she thought you were some of them." Then she looked
around the room and seemed on the verge of apoplexy once more. "But how
did you get in here?" she cried, wildly. "This is the bridal chamber!"

I suddenly felt weak in the back-bone, and thought my head was going to
drop into my lap. The towel fell from Nyoda's shoulders and she stood
there like a statue with her long hair around her. Sahwah stopped still
with her foot on the stool and the handful of towels in her hand. For
one moment we remained as if turned to stone and then Sahwah buried her
face in the towels with a muffled shriek. If embarrassment ever killed
people I know not one of us would have survived. Nyoda apologised
profusely for our intrusion, which, after all, was not our fault, as we
soon found. The hotel man had told us number 65 South Vine Street when