sentiments toward her were nothing more than admiration for her beauty and sympathy for her sorrow. If these were augmented by the elusive mystery that seemed to enwrap her, that was an argument in justification of my sudden interest in a comparative stranger.

"Will you, Otis?" Laura was saying, and I collected my scattered wits with a start, as I said, "will I what?"

"Will you telephone to Mr. Leroy?" she said, a little impatiently, and I knew she was repeating her question.

"Of course," I said, jumping up and looking for the telephone book.

"His number is on the card by the telephone," said Miss Pembroke, and in a few moments I had Leroy's call. But he was not in his office, so leaving word for him to come as soon as possible, I hung up the receiver.

IV

DOCTOR POST'S DISCOVERY

A few moments after this, Mr. George Lawrence arrived. He let himself in at the front door with a latch-key, and walked into the room with the air of one familiar with the place.

"Well, Janet, what's up?" he began, and then, seeing strangers, paused expectantly.

"Mrs. Mulford," said Janet, "this is my cousin, Mr. Lawrence. Mr. Landon, Mr. Lawrence."

The new-comer bowed politely and with the graceful courtesy of a well-bred city man, then turned again to his cousin.

"I sent for you, George," began Janet, "because—because——"

But here her self-possession failed her, and she could go no further. She cast an appealing glance at me, as if to ask me to speak for her, then threw herself on the couch in an uncontrollable fit of weeping.

Laura sat beside the sobbing girl, while Mr. Lawrence turned to me for an explanation.

Judging at first sight that with a man of his type a straightforward statement would be the best, I told him in as few words as possible what had happened.

"Uncle Robert dead!" he exclaimed. "Why, what does it mean? He had no heart trouble that we knew of. Was it apoplexy?"

"I think so," I replied. "Two doctors are in there now, holding a consultation."

"Two doctors?" exclaimed Mr. Lawrence. "Who are they?"

"Doctor Masterson, who was, I believe, your late uncle's physician, and Doctor Post, who lives in this house."

"Which came first?" asked Mr. Lawrence.

By this time Miss Pembroke, who seemed to be subject to sudden changes of demeanor, took it upon herself to answer his question. She had stopped crying, and again showed that icy calmness which I could not yet understand.

"I sent for Doctor Masterson," she said. "I thought uncle was only ill, but when the doctor came he said he was dead; and then he wanted another doctor, so Mr. Landon very kindly went for Doctor Post."

"Why did he want Doctor Post, if Uncle Robert was already dead?" demanded Lawrence.

"To help him to discover what caused uncle's death."

"Then we must await the result of their consultation," he replied. He seemed about to say something else, but checked himself. I could readily understand why he should hesitate to say in the presence of strangers many things that he might have said to his cousin had they been alone.

I felt attracted to this young man. Although he had a careless, good-natured air, there seemed to be an underlying vein of kindly feeling and courteous solicitude. Like Miss Pembroke, he seemed to be controlling his emotion and forcing himself to meet the situation calmly.

George Lawrence was large-framed and heavily-built, while Janet Pembroke was a lithe and willowy slip of a girl; but their features showed a degree of family likeness, and the dark eyes and dark, curling hair were decidedly similar. They seemed congenial, and thoroughly good comrades. Miss Pembroke appeared glad that her cousin had arrived, and he seemed desirous of doing whatever he could to help her. I was struck by the utter absence of any expressions of grief on the part of either, and then I remembered what I had heard about the cruel temper of their uncle. Could it be possible, I thought, that these two were really glad rather than otherwise? Then I remembered Miss Pembroke's piteous weeping, and as I looked at Mr. Lawrence and noted his white face and clenched hands I concluded that they were both controlling their real feelings, and exhibiting only what they considered a proper attitude before strangers.

Then I began to think that since Miss Pembroke's cousin was with her, perhaps Laura and I ought to go away and leave them to themselves. I made a remark to this effect, but, to my surprise, both Miss Pembroke and her cousin insisted that we should stay, at least until the doctors had finished their consultation.

So we stayed, and Laura, with her usual tact, managed to keep up a desultory conversation on various unimportant subjects.

Occasionally the talk became more or less personal, and I learned that George Lawrence had previously lived with his uncle and cousin in this same apartment. It also transpired—though this, I think, was told unintentionally—that the reason why he went away to live by himself was because he could no longer stand the unpleasantness caused by the fierce fits of anger into which old Mr. Pembroke would fly upon the slightest provocation.

"It does seem a pity," he said, "that such a really fine man should be so utterly unable to control his temper. I could stand an ordinary amount of grumbling and fault-finding, but Uncle Robert in his rages was almost insane. He grew worse as he grew older. Janet and I lived with him for many years, and each year he grew more unbearable. I suppose, poor old chap, it was his gout that made him so crusty and cross, but it kept me in hot water so much of the time that I couldn't stand it. Janet stood it better than I did, but she's a born angel anyhow."

Mr. Lawrence looked admiringly at his cousin, who acknowledged his compliment with a faint smile.

"I didn't stand it very well," she said; "but I'm sorry now that I wasn't more patient. Poor old uncle, he didn't have a very happy life."

"Well, you can't blame yourself for that. You did everything in your power to make it pleasant for him, and if he wouldn't accept your efforts, you certainly have nothing for which to reproach yourself."

"Yes, I have," she declared; "we had an awful quarrel last night, and when Uncle left me he was very angry. I hate to think of our last interview."

"The usual subject, I suppose," said young Lawrence, looking sympathetically at his cousin; "have you sent for Leroy?"

This question confirmed my fears. Mr. Lawrence had certainly implied by association of ideas, that Miss Pembroke's quarrel with her uncle the night before had had to do with Graham Leroy in some way. This might refer only to financial matters. But my jealous apprehension made me suspect a more personal side to the story.

She answered that she had sent a message to Leroy, and then again, without a moment's warning, Miss Pembroke burst into one of those convulsive fits of sobbing. I was glad Laura was still there, for she seemed able to soothe the girl as I'm sure no one else could have done.

His cousin's grief seemed to affect George Lawrence deeply, but again he endeavored to suppress any exhibition of emotion. His white face grew whiter, and he clinched his hands until the knuckles stood out like knots, but he spoke no word of sympathy or comfort.

I felt myself slightly at a loss in the presence of his repressed feeling, and as I did not think myself sufficiently acquainted with him to offer any word of sympathy, I said nothing.

It was into this somewhat difficult