When she awoke again it was to see the kindly fat face of Mrs. Mellen beaming at her from the foot of the bed.

“That’s it,” she nodded approvingly; “you’ve had a nice nap.  Head’s better, I’m sure.  Here’s another cup of tea, and I brought you up the evening paper; thought you might want to look it over.  And if you’ll give me your trunk checks, I’ll send the expressman after your baggage.”

“My trunk checks—­what did I do with them?  Why, of course, I gave them to my maid.”

A sudden instinct that she did not wish to see her maid, or be followed by her baggage, made her stop short in her speech.

“Oh, your maid!” said Mrs. Mellen.  “I’m glad you told me—­I’ll have to hold a room.  You didn’t say anything about her last night, so I hadn’t made any provision.  Dear, dear!  And when do you calculate she’s liable to get here?”

Mrs. Marteen took refuge in her headache.  “I don’t know,” she said wearily; “perhaps not to-day.”

“Oh, well, never mind.  I dare say I can manage,” Mrs. Mellen assured her.  “If you’ve got everything you want, I’ll have to go.  Do you think you’ll be able to get down to dinner—­seven, you know; or would you rather have a plate of nice hot soup up here?  Here, I guess.  Well, it’s no trouble at all, and you’re right to starve your head; it’s what I always do.”

She backed smiling out of the door, which she closed gently.

Mrs. Marteen lay back with closed eyes for a moment, then restlessness seizing her, she sat bolt upright and firmly held her own pulse.  “I’m certainly ill,” she said aloud.  “I wonder where Marie is?  Of course I left her at the station, and told her to bring the baggage on.  But that was long ago; what has kept her?  But this isn’t my home,” she argued to herself.  She was too weak to trouble with further questioning.  Instinctively she put out her hand and drew the newspaper toward her.  She raised it idly.

“Murder of Victor Mahr”—­the big headlines met her eyes.

She felt a shock as if a blinding flash of lightning had enveloped her; she remembered.

She sat as if turned to stone, staring at the ominous words.  Her nerves tingled from head to foot; her very life seemed a strained and vibrating string that might snap with any breath.  Slowly, as if the Fates had decided not as yet to break that attenuated thread, the tingling, stinging shock passed.  She found strength to read the whole article, almost intelligently, though at times her mind would wander to inconsequent things, and the beat of her own heart seemed to deaden her understanding.  She remembered now everything, nearly everything, till she turned from her own door, a desperate, homeless outcast.  She recalled a cab going somewhere, and then after what appeared to be an interval of unconsciousness, she was walking, walking, instinctively seeking the darkened streets, a satchel in her hand.  Somewhere, footsore and exhausted, she had sat upon a bench.  Then came the inspiration to go to the quiet house where her friend had stayed.  The friend was far away; she could remain there and not be found—­stay until she had courage to do the thing that had suggested itself as the only issue—­to end it all.