It was a beautiful day, a little warm in the narrow streets of the lower city, but when she had ascended by the elevator to the high story that Henderson occupied in one of the big buildings that rise high enough to give a view of New York Harbor, and looked from the broad windows upon one of the most sparkling and animated scenes in the world, it seemed to her appreciative eyes a day let down out of Paradise.

The clerks all knew Mrs. Henderson, and they rose and bowed as she tripped along smiling towards her husband’s rooms.  It did not seem to be a very busy day, and she found no one waiting in the anteroom, and passed into the room of his private secretary.

“Is Mr. Henderson in?”

“Yes, madam.”

“And busy?”

“Probably busy,” replied the secretary, with a smile, “but he is alone.  No one has disturbed him for over half an hour.”

“Then I will go in.”

She tapped lightly at the door.  There was no response.  She turned the knob softly and looked in, and then, glancing back at the secretary, with a finger uplifted, “I think he is asleep,” opened the door, stepped in, and closed it carefully.

The large room was full of light, and through the half-dozen windows burst upon her the enchanting scene of the Bay, Henderson sat at his table, which was covered with neatly arranged legal documents, but bowed over it, his head resting upon his arms.

“So, Rodney, this is the way, old boy, that you wear yourself out in business!”

She spoke laughingly, but he did not stir, and she tiptoed along to awaken him.

She touched his hand.  It moved heavily away from her hand.  The left arm, released, dropped at his side.

She started back, her eyes round with terror, and screamed.

Instantly the secretary was at her side, and supported her, fainting, to a seat.  Other clerks rushed in at the alarm.  Henderson was lifted from his chair and laid upon a lounge.  When the doctor who had been called arrived, Carmen was in a heap by the low couch, one arm thrown across the body, and her head buried in the cushion close to his.

The doctor instantly applied restoratives; he sent for an electric battery; everything was done that science could suggest.  But all was of no avail.  There was no sign of life.  He must have been dead half an hour, said the doctor.  It was evidently heart-failure.

Before the doctor had pronounced his verdict there was a whisper in the Stock Exchange.

“Henderson is dead!”

“It is not possible,” said one.

“I saw him only yesterday,” said another.

“I was in his office this morning,” said a third.  “I never saw him looking in better health.”