“If it’s a case of heart-failure, why send for the police?” asked one.

“It is better to have an officer or two here,” grumbled another.

“Here comes a cop.”

“Well, I’m going to vamoose.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” whispered George, who, for all his bluster was as curious as myself.  “We will try the rear door where there are fewer persons.  Possibly we can make our way in there, and if we can, Slater will tell us all we want to know.”

Slater was the assistant manager of the Clermont, and one of George’s oldest friends.

“Then hurry,” said I.  “I am being crushed here.”

George did hurry, and in a few minutes we were before the rear entrance of the great hotel.  There was a mob gathered here also, but it was neither so large nor so rough as the one on Broadway.  Yet I doubt if we should have been able to work our way through it if Slater had not, at that very instant, shown himself in the doorway, in company with an officer to whom he was giving some final instructions.  George caught his eye as soon as he was through with the man, and ventured on what I thought a rather uncalled for plea.

“Let us in, Slater,” he begged.  “My wife feels a little faint; she has been knocked about so by the crowd.”

The manager glanced at my face, and shouted to the people around us to make room.  I felt myself lifted up, and that is all I remember of this part of our adventure.  For, affected more than I realised by the excitement of the event, I no sooner saw the way cleared for our entrance than I made good my husband’s words by fainting away in earnest.

When I came to, it was suddenly and with perfect recognition of my surroundings.  The small reception room to which I had been taken was one I had often visited, and its familiar features did not hold my attention for a moment.  What I did see and welcome was my husband’s face bending close over me, and to him I spoke first.  My words must have sounded oddly to those about.  “Have they told you anything about it?” I asked.  “Did he—­”

A quick pressure on my arm silenced me, and then I noticed that we were not alone.  Two or three ladies stood near, watching me, and one had evidently been using some restorative, for she held a small vinaigrette in her hand.  To this lady, George made haste to introduce me, and from her I presently learned the cause of the disturbance in the hotel.

It was of a somewhat different nature from what I expected, and during the recital, I could not prevent myself from casting furtive and inquiring glances at George.

Edith, the well-known daughter of Moses Challoner, had fallen suddenly dead on the floor of the mezzanine.  She was not known to have been in poor health, still less in danger of a fatal attack, and the shock was consequently great to her friends, several of whom were in the building.  Indeed, it was likely to prove a shock to the whole community, for she had great claims to general admiration, and her death must be regarded as a calamity to persons in all stations of life.