St. George explained the location, and Mrs. Hastings fretfully commented.

“I’m sure, Olivia,” she said, “I think it is frightfully unwomanly in you—­”

“To take so much interest in my own murder?” Miss Holland asked in amusement.  “Aunt Dora, I’m going to do more:  I suggest that you and Mr. Frothingham and I go with Mr. St. George to this address in McDougle Street—­”

“My dear Olivia!” shrilled Mrs. Hastings, “it’s in the very heart of the Bowery—­isn’t it, Mr. St. John?  And only think—­”

It was as if Mrs. Hastings’ frustrate words emerged in the fantastic guise of her facial changes.

“No, it isn’t quite the Bowery, Mrs. Hastings,” St. George explained, “though it won’t look unlike.”

“I wish I knew what Mr. Hastings would have done,” his widow mourned, “he always said to me:  ’Medora, do only the necessary thing.’  Do you think this is the necessary thing—­with all the frightful smells?”

“It is perfectly safe,” ventured St. George, “is it not, Mr. Frothingham?”

Mr. Frothingham bowed and tried to make non-partisanship seem a tasteful resignation of his own will.

“I am at Mrs. Hastings’ command,” he said, waving both hands, once, from the wrist.

“You know the place is really only a few blocks from Washington Square,” St. George submitted.

Mrs. Hastings brightened.

“Well, I have some friends in Washington Square,” she said, “people whom I think a great deal of, and always have.  If you really feel, Olivia—­”

“I do,” said Miss Holland simply, “and let us go now, Aunt Dora.  The brougham has been at the door since I came in.  We may as well drive there as anywhere, if Mr. St. George is willing.”

“I shall be happy,” said St. George sedately, longing to cry:  “Willing!  Willing!  Oh, Mrs. Hastings and Miss Holland—­willing!”

Miss Holland and St. George and the lawyer were alone for a few minutes while Mrs. Hastings rustled away for her bonnet.  Miss Holland sat where the afternoon light, falling through the corner window, smote her hair to a glory of pale colour, and St. George’s eyes wandered to the glass through which the sun fell.  It was a thin pane of irregular pieces set in a design of quaint, meaningless characters, in the centre of which was the figure of a sphinx, crucified upon an upright cross and surrounded by a border of coiled asps with winged heads.  The window glittered like a sheet of gems.

“What wonderful glass,” involuntarily said St. George.

“Is it not?” Miss Holland said enthusiastically.  “My father sent it.  He sent nearly all these things from abroad.”

“I wonder where such glass is made,” observed St. George; “it is like lace and precious stones—­hardly more painted than carved.”

She bent upon him such a sudden, searching look that St. George felt his eyes held by her own.

“Do you know anything of my father?” she demanded suddenly.