Ushered into the long and narrow drawing-room which of late years has been so fashionable in our uptown houses, I found myself almost immediately in the presence of Miss Leavenworth.
"Oh," she cried, with an eloquent gesture of welcome, "I had begun to think I was forsaken!" and advancing impulsively, she held out her hand. "What is the news from home?"
"A verdict of murder, Miss Leavenworth."
Her eyes did not lose their question.
"Perpetrated by party or parties unknown."
A look of relief broke softly across her features.
"And they are all gone?" she exclaimed.
"I found no one in the house who did not belong there."
"Oh! then we can breathe easily again."
I glanced hastily up and down the room.
"There is no one here," said she.
And still I hesitated. At length, in an awkward way enough, I turned towards her and said:
"I do not wish either to offend or alarm you, but I must say that I consider it your duty to return to your own home to-night."
"Why?" she stammered. "Is there any particular reason for my doing so? Have you not perceived the impossibility of my remaining in the same house with Eleanore?"
"Miss Leavenworth, I cannot recognize any so-called impossibility of this nature. Eleanore is your cousin; has been brought up to regard you as a sister; it is not worthy of you to desert her at the time of her necessity. You will see this as I do, if you will allow yourself a moment’s dispassionate thought."
"Dispassionate thought is hardly possible under the
