But who had killed Victor Mahr?  She gave a gasp of horror and held up her hands—­was there blood upon them?  But how—­how?  Try as she would, no answering picture of horror rose from her darkened mind.  There was a long, long period she could not account for—­not yet; perhaps it would come back, as these other terrible memories had returned to assail her.  She rolled over, hiding her face in the pillow, and groaned.  The twilight deepened; the shadows thickened in the room.

Suddenly she rose and began dressing in frenzied haste, overcoming her bodily weakness with set purpose.  Habit came to her rescue, for she was hardly conscious of her movements.  Her toilet completed, she began hastily packing her traveling case, the impulse of flight urging her to trembling speed.  But when she lifted the bag its weight discouraged her.  Setting it down again upon the dressing table, she lowered her veil and staggered into the dark hallway.  Economy dictated delayed illumination in the Mellen household.  All was quiet.  Somewhat reassured, she descended the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail.  The fever which had relaxed for a brief interval renewed its grip, and filled with vague, indescribable fears, she fled blindly.  Something in her subconscious brain suggested Victor Mahr, and it was toward Washington Square that she bent her hurried steps.

She entered the park, forcing her failing strength to one supreme effort, and sank, gasping, upon a bench.  It faced toward the darkened residence of the murdered man.  A few stragglers stood grouped on the pavement before the house, of asked questions of the policeman stationed near by.  The electric lights threw lace patterns that wavered over the unfrequented paths.  She leaned back, staring at the dark bulk of the mansion with the darker streak at the doorway, which one divined to be the sinister mark of death.  Suddenly she sat erect, her aching weariness forgotten.  She knew, past peradventure, that she had sat there upon that very seat the night before.  The memory was but a flash.  Already delirium was returning.  She was powerless to move.  Hours passed, and still she sat staring, unseeing, straight before her.  Once a policeman passed and turned to look at her, but her evident refinement quieted his suspicions, and he moved on.

She was roused at last by a movement of the bench as someone took a place beside her.  She looked up and vaguely realized that it was a woman, darkly dressed and heavily veiled like herself.  She, too, leaned back and seemed lost in contemplation of the house opposite.  Presently she raised the veil, as if it obstructed her vision too greatly, revealing a withered face, narrow and long, with a singularly white skin.  She had the look of a respectable working woman, and her black-gloved hands were folded over a neat paper package.  Her curious glance turned toward the lady beside her, and seemed to find satisfaction in the elegance that even the darkness could not quite conceal.  She moved nearer, and with a birdlike twist of the head, leaned forward and frankly gazed in her companion’s face.  The other did not resent the action.