It was a dreadful hour. Only rarely anyone spoke, and though glances sometimes shot from the eyes of one to the eyes of another, each felt his gaze oftenest impelled toward that dread, beautiful figure by the table.

At last Schuyler Carleton, with an evident effort, said suddenly, “Oughtn’t we to send for Tom Willard?”

Mrs. Markham gave a start. “Of course we must,” she said. “Poor Tom! He must be told. Who will tell him?”

“I will,” volunteered Miss Morton, and Doctor Hills looked up, amazed at her calm tone. This woman puzzled him, and he could not understand her continued attempts at authority in a household where she was a comparative stranger. And yet might it not be merely a kind consideration for those who were nearer and dearer to the principals of this awful tragedy?

But even as he thought this over, Miss Morton had gone to the telephone, her heavy silk gown rustling as she crossed the room, and her every movement assertive of her own importance.