CYNTHIA turned a flushed and tear-stained face toward Eleanor, as the latter entered the boudoir and approached her couch.

“Is it all over?” she asked, choking back a sob.

“Yes.” Eleanor lifted her black crÊpe veil, and, pulling out the hatpins, removed her hat and handed it to Annette, who had followed her into the room. “Take my coat, too, Annette,” she directed, “then you need not wait.” As the servant left the room she pulled a low rocking-chair up to the couch on which Cynthia was lying, and placed her hand gently on the weeping girl’s shoulder. “Are you feeling better, dear?”

“A little better.” Cynthia wiped her eyes with a dry handkerchief which Annette had placed on her couch some moments before. “Oh, Eleanor, I am so bitterly ashamed of the scene I made downstairs.”

“You need not be.” Eleanor stroked the curly, fair hair back from Cynthia’s hot forehead with loving fingers. “It was a very painful scene, and Dr. Wallace’s tribute to Senator Carew, while beautiful, was harrowing. I am not surprised you fainted, dear.”

“Aunt Charlotte didn’t, and she was so devoted to Uncle James.”

“Mrs. Winthrop had not been through your terrible experiences of Monday night. Consequently, she had the strength to bear to-day’s ordeal with outward composure.”

“Was it very dreadful at the cemetery?”

“No, dear. The services at the grave were very simple, and, as the funeral was private, it attracted no morbid spectators.”

“Did anyone accompany you?”

“Just the handful of people who were here for the house services.”

“Where is Aunt Charlotte?”

“She went to her room to lie down.”

Cynthia raised herself on her elbow and glanced searchingly about the pretty sitting-room filled with its bird’s-eye maple furniture. The yellow wallpaper, with its wide border of pink roses, chintz curtains and hangings, cast a soft yellow glow, which was exceedingly becoming, as well as restful to the eye. The afternoon sunshine came through the long French windows which overlooked a broad alley.

“Eleanor, would you mind closing the door of my bedroom,” she asked, “and please first see that—that Blanche isn’t sitting there sewing.”

Eleanor glanced curiously at Cynthia as she rose, crossed to the adjoining bedroom, and softly closed the door. “There is no one in your room,” she reported, on her return to her rocking-chair.

Cynthia settled back among her pillows with an air of satisfaction. “At last I have you to myself. First the trained nurse, whom I didn’t need, and then Aunt Charlotte, have always been hanging around, and I haven’t had a chance to ask you any questions.”

“What is it you wish to know?”

“Was there—was there—an autopsy?” Noting Eleanor’s expression, she exclaimed hastily: “Now, Eleanor dear, don’t say I must not talk of Uncle James’ death. The nurse wouldn’t answer me when I spoke on the subject; said I must not think of the tragedy, that it was bad for me. Such nonsense! I would have asked Aunt Charlotte, but she’s been so queer lately, not in the least like her own dear self.”

“Mrs. Winthrop is living under such great strain these days, Cynthia, it’s not surprising. Her brother dead—Philip very ill——”

“They told me he was better,” hastily jerked out Cynthia, with a startled look in her big, brown eyes.

“He is, now,” Eleanor hesitated. “The doctor at first thought he might develop brain fever, but I am told all danger of that is past.”

“What is the matter with him?” persisted Cynthia. “I asked the nurse what the trouble was, but she never told me. Was his attack also caused by the shock of Uncle James’ death?”

“Yes, from shock,” answered Eleanor, mechanically. “You must not blame your aunt if her manner is distrait; she is a very reserved woman and dreads, above all things, letting herself go and breaking down.”

“Oh, I hope she will keep well, she has been so unhappy. I can’t bear to think of her suffering more, but,” she laid her hand pleadingly on Eleanor’s arm, “you haven’t answered my question about the autopsy.”

“Yes, they held one.”

“And what was discovered?” eagerly.

“That Senator Carew was perfectly well physically, and that his death was caused by a stab from the sharp-pointed letter file.”

Cynthia suddenly covered her eyes with her hand, and lay for some minutes without speaking. “Is Hamilton still in jail?” she questioned finally.

“Yes, he is being held for the inquest.”

“Inquest?” Cynthia glanced up, startled. “I thought the inquest was over.”

“No, it hasn’t been held yet.”

“But Uncle James was buried to-day.”

“The funeral could not be postponed, Cynthia. The doctors who performed the autopsy will testify at the inquest.”

“But I thought it was always necessary to hold the inquest after a violent death.”

“It is usually, but in this case the inquest was postponed because you and Philip, two of the most important witnesses, were too ill to attend it.”

Cynthia closed and unclosed her tapering fingers over her handkerchief spasmodically. “Are the detectives still hanging around the house?” she inquired.

“Yes.”

“It’s shameful!” announced Cynthia, sitting upright, “to allow those men to intrude on our grief and privacy. They have arrested Hamilton for the crime, and should leave us alone.”

“They do not think Hamilton guilty.”

“Whom—whom—do they suspect?” The question seemed forced from her.

“Mr. Brett hasn’t confided in me.”

“Mr. Brett?”

“He’s the detective in charge of the case.”

“Oh, is he the tall, fine-looking man I saw talking to Joshua in the hall yesterday morning?”

“No, that was probably Douglas Hunter.”

“Douglas Hunter? Not the Douglas Hunter of the Diplomatic Corps, whom Uncle James was forever talking about?”

“The same. Do you know him?”

“No, he has always been absent from Washington when I’ve been in the city. What is he doing here now?”

“Trying to help Mr. Brett solve the mystery of Senator Carew’s death.”

“Good Heavens! What earthly business is it of his?”

“Don’t ask me,” Eleanor’s usually tranquil voice was a trifle sharp. “I suppose he is hoping to win the reward offered by Mrs. Winthrop.”

“Reward?” Cynthia’s voice rose, and drowned the sound of a faint knock at the hall door.

“Yes. Your aunt announced that she would give five thousand dollars to anyone who could solve the mystery.” Cynthia was listening with absorbed attention to Eleanor, and neither noticed that the hall door was pushed open a few inches, then softly closed. “Uncle Dana told her that was too much to offer, and she reduced the sum to one thousand dollars, with the proviso that it should be increased if the first offer brought no result.”

Cynthia sighed deeply. “Why, why did she do it?” she cried passionately. “She must be mad!”

Eleanor glanced at her companion in astonishment. “Cynthia, you must not excite yourself,” she remonstrated firmly. “Otherwise, I shall leave you.”

Cynthia reached out and clutched her arm. “Don’t go,” she entreated. “I must——” her words were interrupted by a sharp rap on the hall door. “Come in.”

In response Annette opened the door. “Pardon, Mademoiselle, but it is five o’clock, and I thought you might like your tea up here instead of downstairs.”

“Capital, Annette,” exclaimed Eleanor, as the maid entered carrying a tray. “Wait a moment, and I will get that small table.” Deftly she removed the books and magazines, and then carried the table over to the couch. Annette put a tray laden with tempting sandwiches, small cakes, the teapot and its accessories, on the table, then bent over and arranged Cynthia’s pillows at her back with practiced hand.

“Mademoiselle is more comfortable, n’est-ce pas?” she asked briskly.

“Yes, indeed, Annette,” Cynthia nodded gratefully at the Frenchwoman.

“Have you everything you wish, Mademoiselle Eleanor?”

“Yes, Annette, thank you. If I want anything more I will ring.”

“Be sure and close the door, Annette,” directed Cynthia, “I am afraid of a draft”; and she looked around until she saw her order obeyed.

“Have a sandwich?” asked Eleanor, handing the dish and a plate to Cynthia.

“I’d rather eat good sandwiches than solid food,” announced Cynthia, after a pause, helping herself to another portion.

“Solid?” echoed Eleanor. “I call pÂtÉ de foie gras and deviled ham pretty solid eating, Cynthia; especially when taken in bulk,” glancing quizzically at the rapidly diminishing pile.

“Don’t begrudge me these crumbs.” Cynthia’s smile was followed by a sigh. “I’ve lived on slops for three days. Why are you giving me such weak tea, Eleanor? I loathe it made that way.”

“I am afraid to make it stronger, Cynthia, it will keep you awake.”

“I don’t want to sleep; I’d give anything not to sleep!”

“Why, Cynthia!”

“If I could really sleep—drop into oblivion—I would like it, but instead I dream, and, oh, God! I fear my dream.”

Eleanor laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Lie down,” she commanded, “and compose yourself.”

Cynthia lay back on her pillows, panting a little from her exertion, the color coming and going in her winsome face.

“I would give anything, Eleanor, if I had your tranquil disposition,” she said, more quietly. “I cannot help my temperament. My mother was Scotch to the fingertips, and, I have been told, had the gift of second-sight—although I sometimes doubt if such a thing is a gift.”

“Perhaps I can understand better than you think,” said Eleanor gently. “My mother was Irish, and the Irish, you know, are just as great believers in the supernatural as the Scotch.”

“You always understand,” Cynthia bent forward and kissed her friend warmly. “That’s why you are such a comfort. Let me tell you why I am so nervous and unstrung. Since a little child I have been obsessed by one dream, it is always the same, and always precedes disaster.” She sighed, drearily. “I had it just before my grandmother’s death; then before my uncle, Mr. Winthrop, killed himself; and on Sunday night I had it again.” She shuddered as she spoke.

“What is your dream?”

“It is this way: I may be sleeping soundly, when suddenly I see a door—a door which stands out vividly in a shadowy space, which might be a room, or hallway—the door is white and the panels are in the shape of a cross, so”—illustrating her meaning with her arms—“I hear a cry—the cry of a soul in torment—I rush to the rescue, always to find the door locked, and wake myself beating on the empty air”—she shuddered as she spoke, and drew her kimono closer about her. “I awake cold and trembling from head to foot.”

“You poor darling,” Eleanor took the limp form in her arms with a gesture of infinite understanding and compassion.

“I had the dream Sunday night,” sobbed Cynthia, “then Monday, when I thought we could announce our engagement——”

“Whose engagement?” asked a quiet voice behind the pair. Startled, Eleanor wheeled around to find Mrs. Winthrop standing behind her, as Cynthia slipped from her arms and buried her head in the friendly cushions, her slender form shaking with convulsive sobs.