We saw people standing in various attitudes of grief and dismay about a couch, one end of which only was visible to us at the moment.  The doctor had just joined them, and every head was turned towards him and every body bent forward in anxious expectation.  I remember the face of one grey haired old man.  I shall never forget it.  He was probably her father.  Later, I knew him to be so.  Her face, even her form, was entirely hidden from us, but as we watched (I have often thought with what heartless curiosity) a sudden movement took place in the whole group—­and for one instant a startling picture presented itself to our gaze.  Miss Challoner was stretched out upon the couch.  She was dressed as she came from dinner, in a gown of ivory-tinted satin, relieved at the breast by a large bouquet of scarlet poinsettias.  I mention this adornment, because it was what first met and drew our eyes and the eyes of every one about her, though the face, now quite revealed, would seem to have the greater attraction.  But the cause was evident and one not to be resisted.  The doctor was pointing at these poinsettias in horror and with awful meaning, and though we could not hear his words, we knew almost instinctively, both from his attitude and the cries which burst from the lips of those about him, that something more than broken petals and disordered laces had met his eyes; that blood was there—­slowly oozing drops from the heart—­which for some reason had escaped all eyes till now.

Miss Challoner was dead, not from unsuspected disease, but from the violent attack of some murderous weapon; As the realisation of this brought fresh panic and bowed the old father’s head with emotions even more bitter than those of grief, I turned a questioning look up at George’s face.

It was fixed with a purpose I had no trouble in understanding.

II

“I know the man”

Yet he made no effort to detain Mr. Slater, when that gentleman, under this renewed excitement, hastily left us.  He was not the man to rush into anything impulsively, and not even the presence of murder could change his ways.

“I want to feel sure of myself,” he explained.  “Can you bear the strain of waiting around a little longer, Laura?  I mustn’t forget that you fainted just now.”

“Yes, I can bear it; much better than I could bear going to Adela’s in my present state of mind.  Don’t you think the man we saw had something to do with this?  Don’t you believe—­”

“Hush!  Let us listen rather than talk.  What are they saying over there?  Can you hear?”

“No.  And I cannot bear to look.  Yet I don’t want to go away.  It’s all so dreadful.”

“It’s devilish.  Such a beautiful girl!  Laura, I must leave you for a moment.  Do you mind?”

“No, no; yet—­”

I did mind; but he was gone before I could take back my word.  Alone, I felt the tragedy much more than when he was with me.  Instead of watching, as I had hitherto done, every movement in the room opposite, I drew back against the wall and hid my eyes, waiting feverishly for George’s return.