“She’s here! I thought she would be. She’s one of the three young ladies you see in the right-hand box near the proscenium.” The gentleman thus addressed—a man of middle age and a member of the most exclusive clubs—turned his opera glass toward the spot designated, and in some astonishment retorted: “She? Why those are the Misses Pratt and—” “Miss Violet Strange; no other.” “And do you mean to say—” “I do—” “That yon silly little chit, whose father I know, whose fortune I know, who is seen every

“No. No.” “She’s a most unhappy woman. Husband and child both taken from her in a moment; and now, all means of living as well, unless some happy thought of yours—some inspiration of your genius—shows us a way of re-establishing her claims to the policy voided by this cry of suicide.” But the small wise head of Violet Strange continued its slow shake of decided refusal. “I’m sorry,” she protested, “but it’s quite out of my province. I’m too young to meddle with so serious a matter.” “Not when yo

“Not I.” “Not studied the case which for the last few days has provided the papers with such conspicuous headlines?” “I do not read the papers. I have not looked at one in a whole week.” “Miss Strange, your social engagements must be of a very pressing nature just now?” “They are.” “And your business sense in abeyance?” “How so?” “You would not ask if you had read the papers.” To this she made no reply save by a slight toss of her pretty head. If her employer felt nettled by this show of indiffe

Miss Strange was not often pensive—at least not at large functions or when under the public eye. But she certainly forgot herself at Mrs. Provost’s musicale and that, too, without apparent reason. Had the music been of a high order one might have understood her abstraction; but it was of a decidedly mediocre quality, and Violet’s ear was much too fine and her musical sense too cultivated for her to be beguiled by anything less than the very best. Nor had she the excuse of a dull companion. Her e

“I think you will find it quite enough, Miss Strange.” “Just the address—” “And this advice: that your call be speedy. Distracted nerves cannot wait.” Violet, across whose wonted piquancy there lay an indefinable shadow, eyed her employer with a doubtful air before turning away toward the door. She had asked him for a case to investigate (something she had never done before), and she had even gone so far as to particularize the sort of case she desired: “It must be an interesting one,” she had s

Miss Strange was not in a responsive mood. This her employer had observed on first entering; yet he showed no hesitation in laying on the table behind which she had ensconced herself in the attitude of one besieged, an envelope thick with enclosed papers. “There,” said he. “Telephone me when you have read them.” “I shall not read them.” “No?” he smiled; and, repossessing himself of the envelope, he tore off one end, extracted the sheets with which it was filled, and laid them down still unfolded

Violet had gone to her room. She had a task before her. That afternoon, a packet had been left at the door, which, from a certain letter scribbled in one corner, she knew to be from her employer. The contents of that packet must be read, and she had made herself comfortable with the intention of setting to work at once. But ten o’clock struck and then eleven before she could bring herself to give any attention to the manuscript awaiting her perusal. In her present mood, a quiet sitting by the fi

“One more! just one more well paying affair, and I promise to stop; really and truly to stop.” “But, Puss, why one more? You have earned the amount you set for yourself,—or very nearly,—and though my help is not great, in three months I can add enough—” “No, you cannot, Arthur. You are doing well; I appreciate it; in fact, I am just delighted to have you work for me in the way you do, but you cannot, in your present position, make enough in three months, or in six, to meet the situation as I see

“I am afraid so.” It was Roger Upjohn who had asked the question; it was Violet who answered. They had withdrawn from a crowd of dancers to a balcony, half-shaded, half open to the moon,—a balcony made, it would seem, for just such stolen interviews between waltzes. Now, as it happened, Roger’s face was in the shadow, but Violet’s in the full light. Very sweet it looked, very ethereal, but also a little wan. He noticed this and impetuously cried: “You are pale; and your hand! see, how it tremble