CHAPTER XII
MAURICE TRASK, HEIR
The funeral services of John Waring were solemn and impressive. No reference was made to the manner of his taking-off, save to call it mysterious, and the encomiums heaped upon him by the clergy and the college faculty were as sincere as they were well-deserved.
There were two members of the great audience who were looked at with curiosity by many.
One of these was Miss Mystery, the girl who, it was vaguely rumored was in some way connected with the tragedy.
To look at her, this seemed impossible, for a sweeter face or a gentler manner could scarce be imagined.
Anita Austin sat near the front, on one of the side aisles. She wore a gown of taupe-colored duvetyn, and a velvet toque of the same color. Her olive face was pale, and now and then her small white teeth bit into her scarlet lower lip, as if she were keeping her self-control only by determined effort.
A close observer might note that she paid no heed to the utterance of the able men who gave tribute to John Waring’s character, but her troubled eyes rested on the flower-covered casket, and the rising tears overflowed as she stifled an occasional sob.
And then, fairly clenching her hands in a determination to show no emotion, this strange girl would straighten up, and stare blankly ahead of her as if in utter oblivion of the scene.
Directly behind her was Helen Peyton, who had chosen that place with the intention of watching Miss Mystery. Mrs. Peyton was by her daughter’s side, but her whole attention was on the funeral services, and she thought of little else.
Not far off was Gordon Lockwood, and with him were Mrs. Bates and her nephew, Pinckney Payne. Of this trio only the secretary let his gaze wander now and then to the sad little face that was rapidly becoming the dearest thing in life to him. As the church filled, and the flower-scented atmosphere grew oppressive, Miss Austin let her coat fall from her shoulders, and Lockwood noted with a start that she wore the same gown she had worn to the lecture at which he first saw her. Again he counted the queer little buttons that edged the sailor collar. He shook his head, and a great feeling of compassion filled his heart.