has remarked that she is an unusually attractive woman. And now, as his glance for an instant sweeps over her, he votes her superb.
Brief as is his admiring gaze, it is critical. It rests upon the twined mass of golden hair, drifts over the face to the long white throat and the strong shoulders, thence to the faultless figure and sweep of limb. She is as different from her sister Helen as the placid morning is unlike the beauteous night. Louise is the morning. There is a strong sunlight in her glorious blue eyes, but now they are shadowed by the grief of the last few days.
She lifts her eyes from the visiting card. "You are a reporter," she says, with a shade of weariness in her voice.
"I have the honor of representing the New York Hemisphere. I do not desire to cause you any annoyance, but there were some matters not brought out in the inquest which I wish to investigate."
"And you have come all the way from New York for this?"
"No; I have been spending my vacation in Raymond, and, of course, when the news of the tragedy reached our paper I was instructed to look after it. I know that the errand on which I have come must be a painful one for you to discuss, but I assure you that I have more than a reportorial interest in the case."
"Yes?" She looks at him inquiringly.
"You must be aware that the case is an unusual one," he goes on. "My interest in it has grown into a determination to run down and bring to justice the slayer of your father."
He tries to read in the glance she gives him a trace of gratitude, of approval. Failing, he decides that Louise Hathaway is an extraordinary young woman.
"Have you discovered anything—anything that the local authorities—they are so stupid—have overlooked?" she asks, and he fancies there is something of anxiety in the calm, slow tones of a very musical voice.
"Yes," he replies. "We, the detective and myself, are engaged on several clews. But it is necessary that we
