"I can give mademoiselle apartments adjoining," said the clerk eagerly.
"Then do so."
She signed her name in the register, and beckoned for Marie.
"Marie," she said, "you may return and finish packing my trunks. Please bring them here."
"Here?" queried Marie.
"Here," answered Marjory.
She turned to the clerk.
"Take me upstairs at once."
There was a strong smell of ether in the hall outside the door of Monte Covington's room. It made her gasp for a moment. It seemed to make concrete what, after all, had until this moment been more or less vague. It was like fiction suddenly made true. That pungent odor was a grim reality. So was that black-bearded Dr. Marcellin, who, leaving his patient in the hands of his assistant, came to the door wiping his hands upon a towel.
"I am Mr. Covington's fiancée—Miss Stockton," she said at once. "You will tell me the truth?"