“I’ve been saying that same question to myself for days, ma’am,” quavered Matilda.  “And I—­I don’t see any answer.”

No, there was nothing she could do.  Mrs. De Peyster continued her glazed stare at her faithful serving-woman.  In the first few minutes her mind had been able to take in the significance only to herself of this culminating disaster.  But now its significance to another person shivered through that her being.

Poor—­poor Olivetta!

For Olivetta, of course, it was.  Mrs. De Peyster knew what was due the De Peyster corpuscles that moved in stately procession along the avenues of her blood, and was not neglectful to see that that due was properly observed; but the heart from which those corpuscles derived their impulse was, as Judge Harvey had once said, in its way the kindest sort of heart.  And now, for a few minutes, all that her heart could feel was felt for Olivetta.

But for a few minutes only.  Then Olivetta, and all concerns beyond the immediate moment, were suddenly forgotten.  For in the hall without soft footsteps were heard, and the instant after, upon her door, there sounded an ominous scratching—­a sound like a key in an agitated hand searching for its appointed hole.

Mrs. De Peyster rose up and clutched Matilda’s arm, and stood in rigid terror.

“Tha—­that key?” chattered Matilda.  “Can—­can it fit?”

“There were only two keys,” breathed Mrs. De Peyster.  “Mine here, and the one I gave to Olivetta.”

“Then it can’t fit, since Miss Olivetta’s—­”

But the key gave Matilda the lie direct by slipping into the lock.  The two women clung to one another, knowing that the end had come, wondering who was to be their exposer.  The bolt clicked back, the door swung open, and—­

And into the dusky room there tottered a rather tall, heavily veiled, feminine figure.  It did not gaze at the shrinking couple in astoundment.  It did not launch into exclamation at its discovery.  Instead, it sank weakly down into the nearest chair.

“Oh!” it moaned.  “Oh!  Oh!  Oh!”

“Who—­who are you?” huskily demanded Mrs. De Peyster.

“Oh!  Oh!” moaned the figure.  “Isn’t it terrible!  Isn’t it terrible!  But I didn’t mean to do it—­I didn’t mean to do it, Caroline!”

“It’s not—­not Olivetta?” gasped Mrs. De Peyster.

“It was an accident!” the figure wailed on.  “I couldn’t help myself.  And if you knew what I’ve gone through to get here, I know you’d forgive me.”

Mrs. De Peyster had lifted the veil up over the hat.

“Olivetta!  Then—­after all—­you’re not dead!”

“No—­if I only were!” sobbed Olivetta.

“Then who is that—­that person who’s coming here this morning?”

“I don’t know!” Then Olivetta’s quavering voice grew hard with indignation.  “It’s somebody who’s trying to get a good funeral under false pretenses!”

“But the papers said the body had on my clothes.”