The very ground under her seemed to slide....

Mrs. Bromley dead!

Why, the ink of her friendly note seemed scarcely dry!

On the pavement once more she halted to collect herself.

Who was there left at all?

At Croydon, there was a conservatoire, of course—

She felt a little guilty at the rapidity of the idea.

Woolgathering, she breasted the traffic in St. Martin’s Lane.

She would turn the situation over presently more easily in the Park.

Instinctively, she stopped to examine a portrait of Yvonde Yalta in the open vestibule of the Dream.