“This one.  I am sure it came from this one,” she declared, knocking loudly on Anitra’s door.

There was a rustle within, a cry which was half a sob, then the sound of a hand fumbling with the lock.  Meanwhile, Mr. Ransom had bent his ear to his wife’s door.

“All still in here,” he cried.  “Not a sound.  Something dreadful has happened—­”

Just then Anitra’s door fell back and a wild image confronted him and such others as had by this time collected in the passageway.  With only a shawl covering her nightdress, the gipsy-like creature stood clawing the air and answering the looks that appealed to her, with wild gurgles, till suddenly her hot glances fell on Roger Ransom, when she instantly became rigid and stammered out: 

“She’s gone!  I saw her black figure go by my window.  She called out that the waterfall drew her.  She went by the little balcony and the roof.  The roof was slippery with the rain and she fell.  That’s why I screamed.  But she got up again.  What is she going to do at the waterfall?  Stop her! stop her!  She hasn’t steady feet like me, and I wasn’t really angry.  I liked her; I liked her.”

Sobs choked the rest.  Her terror was infectious.  Mr. Ransom reeled, then flung himself at Georgian’s door.  It resisted but the silence within told him that she was not there.  Neither was she in Anitra’s room.  They could all look in and see it bare to the window.

“You saw her climbing past there?” he cried, forgetting she was deaf.

“Yes, yes,” she chattered, catching his meaning from his pointing finger.  “There’s a balcony.  She must have jumped on it from her own window.  She didn’t come in here.  See! the door is locked on her side.”

This was true.

“I woke and saw her.  My eyes are like lynx’s.  I got out of bed to watch.  She fell—­”

The noise of a breaking lock snapped her words in two.  One of the men present had flung himself against this communicating door.  Immediately they all crowded into the adjoining room.  It was empty and bitterly cold and wet.  An open window explained why, and possibly the letter lying on the bureau inscribed with her husband’s name would explain the rest.  But he stopped to read no letters now.

“Show me the way to those falls,” he cried, pocketing the letter as he rushed by the disheveled Anitra into the open hall.  “I’m her husband, Roger Ransom.  Who goes with me?  He who does is my friend for life.”

The clerk and one or two others rushed for their coats and lanterns.  He waited for nothing.  The roar of the waterfall had told him too many tales that day.  And the will!  Her will just signed!

“Georgian!”

They could hear his cry.

“Georgian!  Georgian!  Wait! wait! hear what I have to say!” thrilled back through the mist as he stumbled on, followed by the men waving their lanterns and shouting words of warning he probably never heard.  Then his cry further off and fainter.  “Georgian!  Georgian!” Then silence and the slow drizzle of rain on the soggy walk and soaked roofs, with the far-off boom of the waterfall which Mrs. Deo and the trembling maids gazing at the wide-eyed Anitra shivering in the center of her deserted room, tried to shut out by closing window and blind, forgetting that she was deaf and only heard such echoes as were thundering in her own mind.