“Pilate!” escaped my lips, in a sort of nervous chuckle.  But George shook his head at me.

“I don’t like it,” he muttered, with unusual gravity.  “Did you see his face?” Then as the man rose and hurried away from us down the street, “I should like to follow him.  I do believe—­”

But here we became aware of a quick rush and sudden clamour around the corner we had just left, and turning quickly, saw that something had occurred on Broadway which was fast causing a tumult.

“What’s the matter?” I cried.  “What can have happened?  Let’s go see, George.  Perhaps it has something to do with our man.”

My husband, with a final glance down the street at the fast disappearing figure, yielded to my importunity, and possibly to some new curiosity of his own.

“I’d like to stop that man first,” said he.  “But what excuse have I?  He may be nothing but a crank, with some crack-brained idea in his head.  We’ll soon know; for there’s certainly something wrong there on Broadway.”

“He came out of the Clermont,” I suggested.

“I know.  If the excitement isn’t there, what we’ve just seen is simply a coincidence.”  Then, as we retraced our steps to the corner “Whatever we hear or see, don’t say anything about this man.  It’s after eight, remember, and we promised Adela that we would be at the house before nine.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

“Remember.”

It was the last word he had time to speak before we found ourselves in the midst of a crowd of men and women, jostling one another in curiosity or in the consternation following a quick alarm.  All were looking one way, and, as this was towards the entrance of the Clermont, it was evident enough to us that the alarm had indeed had its origin in the very place we had anticipated.  I felt my husband’s arm press me closer to his side as we worked our way towards the entrance, and presently caught a warning sound from his lips as the oaths and confused cries everywhere surrounding us were broken here and there by articulate words and we heard: 

“Is it murder?”

“The beautiful Miss Challoner!”

“A millionairess in her own right!”

“Killed, they say.”

“No, no! suddenly dead; that’s all.”

“George, what shall we do?” I managed to cry into my husband’s ear.

“Get out of this.  There is no chance of our reaching that door, and I can’t have you standing round any longer in this icy slush.”

“But—­but is it right?” I urged, in an importunate whisper.  “Should we go home while he—­”

“Hush!  My first duty is to you.  We will go make our visit; but to-morrow—­”

“I can’t wait till to-morrow,” I pleaded, wild to satisfy my curiosity in regard to an event in which I naturally felt a keen personal interest.

He drew me as near to the edge of the crowd as he could.  There were new murmurs all about us.