tinction, there was stamped into them something of that dumb, dog-like fidelity to some object which redeemed them from utter insignificance. Wrayson, as he watched her, found himself thinking more kindly of the dead man himself. In his vulgar, selfish way, he had probably been kind to her: he must have done something to have kindled this flame of dogged, persevering affection. Already he scarcely doubted that Morris Barnes and Augustus Howard had been the same person. Within a very few minutes of her entering the flats there remained no doubt at all. With a low moan, like a dumb animal mortally hurt, she sank down upon the nearest chair, clasping the photograph which Sydney Barnes had passed her in her hands.
For a few moments there was silence. Then she looked up—at Wrayson. Her lips moved but no words came. She began again. This time he was able to catch the indistinct whisper.
"Where is he?"
Wrayson took a seat by her side upon the sofa.
"You do not read the newspapers?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Not much. My eyes are not very good, and it tires me to read."
"I am afraid," he said gently, "that it will be bad news."
A little sob caught in her throat.
"Go on," she faltered.
"He is dead," Wrayson said simply.
She fainted quietly away.
Wrayson hurried downstairs to his own flat for some brandy. When he returned the girl was still unconscious. Her pocket was turned inside out and the
