which even I felt forced to recognize. Brought to this point, I thrust the paper into my pocket, and took up the evening Express. Instantly my eye fell upon these words:
SHOCKING MURDER
MR. LEAVENWORTH, THE WELL-KNOWN MILLIONAIRE,
FOUND DEAD IN HIS ROOM
NO CLUE TO THE PERPETRATOR OF THE DEED
THE AWFUL CRIME COMMITTED WITH A PISTOL—
EXTRAORDINARY FEATURES OF THE AFFAIR
Ah! here at least was one comfort; her name was not yet mentioned as that of a suspected party. But what might not the morrow bring? I thought of Mr. Gryce’s expressive look as he handed me that key, and shuddered.
"She must be innocent; she cannot be otherwise," I reiterated to myself, and then pausing, asked what warranty I had of this? Only her beautiful face; only, only her beautiful face. Abashed, I dropped the newspaper, and went down-stairs just as a telegraph boy arrived with a message from Mr. Veeley. It was signed by the proprietor of the hotel at which Mr. Veeley was then stopping and ran thus:
"Washington, D. C.
"Mr. Everett Raymond—
"Mr. Veeley is lying at my house ill. Have not shown him telegram, fearing results. Will do so as soon as advisable.
"Thomas Loworthy."
