The next day the newspapers, under the head of casualties, published the following paragraph:
"On Friday evening last a young man, a foreigner, of the name of Gaston Hyle, who had been stopping at the Star Hotel, Havre-de-Grace, was accidentally drowned while boating on the river. His body has not yet been recovered."
No, nor his body never was recovered.
Mary Grey, for form's sake, remained a week at Havre-de-Grace, affecting great anxiety for the recovery of that body. But she shut herself up in her room, pretending the deepest grief, and upon this pretext refusing all sympathizing visits, even from the ladies who had shown her so much kindness on the night of the catastrophe, and from the clergy, who would have offered her religious consolation.
The true reason of her seclusion was that she did not wish her features to become familiar to these people, lest at some future time they might possibly be inconveniently recognized.
As yet no one had seen her face except by night or in her darkened room. And she did not intend that they should.
Her supposed grievous bereavement was her all-sufficient excuse for her seclusion.
At the end of the week Mary Grey paid her bill at the Star, and, closely-veiled, left the hotel and took the evening train for Washington, en route for Richmond.
In due time she reached the last-named city and took up her residence at her old quarters with the Misses Crane, there to wait patiently until the marriage of Alden Lytton and Emma Cavendish should give her the opportunity of consummating their ruin and her own triumph. Meanwhile poor Craven Kyte's leave of absence having expired, he began to be missed and inquired for.
But to all questions his partner answered that he did not know where he was or when he would be back, but thought he was all right.