“What’s that?”

There was a loud rap upon the door.

“I say, Judge Harvey, Mr. De Peyster,” called out a voice.  “What’s all this delay about?”

“Who is it?” breathed Mrs. De Peyster.

“That infernal Mayfair, and the whole gang of reporters!” exclaimed Jack.

“Oh, Jack,—­Judge Harvey!  Save me!  Save me!”

“The hour set for the funeral is passed,” Mayfair continued to call, “the drawing-room is packed with people, and the body hasn’t arrived yet.  We don’t want to make ourselves obnoxious, but it’s almost press-time for the next edition, and we’ve got to know what’s doing.  You know what a big story this is.  Understand—­we’ve simply got to know!”

“Judge—­what the devil are we going to do?” breathed Jack.

“My God, Caroline, Jack,—­this is awful!” Judge Harvey whispered desperately.  “We simply can’t keep this out of the papers, and when it does get out—­”

“Oh!  Oh!” moaned Mrs. De Peyster.

“Judge Harvey,” called the impatient Mr. Mayfair, “you really must tell us what’s up!”

Judge Harvey and Jack and Mary regarded each other in blank desperation; Mrs. De Peyster and Olivetta and Matilda were merely different varieties of jellied helplessness.

“Judge Harvey,” Mr. Mayfair called again, “we simply must insist!”

“Caroline,” falteringly whispered Judge Harvey, “I don’t see what we—­”

“Pardon me,” whispered Mr. Pyecroft, gently stepping forward among them.  Then he raised his voice:  “Wait just one minute, gentlemen!  You shall know everything!”

“Oh, Mr. Pyecroft, don’t, don’t!” moaned Mrs. De Peyster.  “Judge Harvey—­Jack—­don’t let him!  Send them away!  Put it off!  I can’t stand it!”

But Mr. Pyecroft, without heeding her protest, and unhampered by the others, stepped to Olivetta’s side.

“Miss Harmon,” he whispered rapidly, “did you obey Mrs. De Peyster’s instructions on your voyage home?  About keeping to your stateroom—­about keeping yourself veiled, and all the rest?”

“Yes,” said Olivetta.

“And Mrs. De Peyster’s trunks, where are they?”

“At the Cunard pier,”

“What name did you sail under?”

“Miss Harriman.”

In the same instant Mr. Pyecroft had lifted Olivetta to her feet, had drawn from her boneless figure the long traveling-coat of pongee silk, and had drawn the pins from her traveling-hat.  Released from his support, Olivetta re-collapsed.  In the next instant Mr. Pyecroft had Mrs. De Peyster upon her feet, with firm, deft, resistless hands had slipped the long coat upon her, had put the hat upon her head and pushed in the pins, had drawn the thick veil down over her face—­and had thrust her again down into her chair.

“Matilda, not a word!” he ordered, in a quick, authoritative whisper.  “Miss Harmon, not a word!  Mrs. De Peyster, call up your nerve; you’ll need it, for you know that Mayfair is the cleverest reporter in Park Row.  And now, Mrs. Jack De Peyster,”—­for Mary stood nearest the door,—­“let them in.”