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is so like Selina," rejoined Mrs. Octagon tartly, "receiving a person of whom she knows nothing."

      "Oh, she does know a little. Mrs. Herne is the widow of a Spanish merchant, and she struck me as being foreign herself. Aunt Selina has known her for three years, and she has come almost every week to play whist at Rose Cottage. I believe she lives at Hampstead!"

      "It seems to me, Juliet, that your aunt told you a great deal about this person. Why did you ask?"

      Juliet stared into the fire. "There is something so strange about Mrs. Herne," she murmured. "In spite of her gray hair she looks quite young. She does not walk as an old woman. She confessed to being over fifty. To be sure, I saw her only once."

      Mrs. Octagon grew rather cross. "I am over fifty, and I'm sure I don't look old, you undutiful child. When the soul is young, what matters the house of clay. But, as I was saying," she added hastily, not choosing to talk of her age, which was a tender point with her, "Selina Loach likes low company. I know nothing of Mrs. Herne, but what you say of her does not sound refined."

      "Oh, she is quite a lady."

      "And as to Mr. Clancy and Mr. Jarvey Hale," added Mrs. Octagon, taking no notice, "I mistrust them. That Hale man looked as though he would do a deed of darkness on the slightest provocation."

      So tragic was her mother's manner, that Juliet turned even paler than she was. "Whatever do you mean?" she asked quickly.

      "I mean murder, if I must use so vulgar and melodramatic a word."

      "But I don't understand – "

      "Bless me," cried Mrs. Octagon, becoming more prosaic than ever, "there is nothing to understand. But Selina lives in quite a lonely house, and has a lot of money. I never open the papers but what I expect to read of her death by violence."

      "Oh," murmured Juliet, again crossing to the window, "you should not talk like that, mother!"

      Mrs. Octagon laughed good-naturedly. "Nonsense, child. I am only telling you my thoughts. Selina is such a strange woman and keeps such strange company that she won't end in the usual way. You may be sure of that. But, after all, if she does die, you will come in for her money and then, can marry Cuthbert Mallow."

      Juliet shuddered. "I hope Aunt Selina will live for many a long day, if that is what you think," she said sharply. "I want none of her money. Cuthbert has money of his own, and his uncle is rich also."

      "I really hope Cuthbert has enough to justify him gambling."

      "He does not gamble," said Juliet quickly.

      "Yes he does," insisted Mrs. Octagon. "I have heard rumors; it is but right you should hear about – "

      "I want to hear nothing. I thought you liked Cuthbert."

      "I do, and he is a good match. But I should like to see you accept the Poet Arkwright, who will yet be the Shakespeare of England."

      "England has quite enough glory with the Shakespeare she has," rejoined Juliet tartly, "and as to Mr. Arkwright, I wouldn't marry him if he had a million. A silly, ugly, weak – "

      "Stop!" cried Mrs. Octagon, rising majestically from her throne. "Do not malign genius, lest the gods strike you dumb. Child – "

      What Mrs. Octagon was about to say further must remain ever a mystery, for it was at this moment that her husband hurried into the room with an evening paper in his hand. "My dear," he said, his scanty hair almost standing on end with horror, "such dreadful news. Your aunt, Juliet, my dear – "

      "Selina," said Mrs. Octagon quietly, "go on. There is nothing bad I don't expect to hear about Selina. What is it?"

      "She is dead!"

      "Dead!" cried Juliet, clasping her hands nervously. "No!"

      "Not only dead, but murdered!" cried Mr. Octagon. His wife suddenly dropped into her throne and, being a large fleshly woman, her fall shook the room. Then she burst into tears. "I never liked Selina," she sniffed, "even though she was my own sister, but I am sorry – I am dreadfully – oh, dear me! Poor Selina!"

      By this time all the dramatic posing of Mrs. Octagon had gone by the wall, and she showed herself in her true colors as a kind-hearted woman. Juliet hurried to her mother and took one of her hands. The elder woman started, even in the midst of her tears. "My child, your hand is as cold as ice," she said anxiously. "Are you ill."

      "No," said the girl hurriedly and evidently trying to suppress her emotion, "but this dreadful news! Do you remember what you said?"

      "Yes – but I never expected I would be a true prophetess," sobbed Mrs. Octagon. "Peter," with sudden tartness, "why don't you give me the details. Poor Selina dead, and here am I in ruby velvet!"

      "There are not many details to give," said Peter, reading from the newspaper, "the police are keeping quiet about the matter."

      "Who killed her?"

      Juliet rose suddenly and turned on the electric light, so that her step-father could see to read more clearly. "Yes," she said in a firm voice, belied by the ghastly whiteness of her face, "who killed her?"

      "It is not known," said Mr. Octagon. "Last night she entertained a few friends – to be precise, three, and she was found by her new parlor-maid dead in her chair, stabbed to the heart. The weapon has not been found, nor has any trace of the murderer been discovered."

      "Entertained friends," muttered Mrs. Octagon weeping, "the usual lot. Mr. Hale, Mrs. Herne and Mr. Clancy – "

      "Yes," said Peter, somewhat surprised, "how do you know?"

      "My soul, whispered me," said Mrs. Octagon tragically, and becoming melodramatic again, now that the first shock was over. "One of those three killed her. Who struck the fatal blow? – the villain Hale I doubt not."

      "No," cried Juliet, "it was not Mr. Hale. He would not harm a fly."

      "Probably not," said her mother tartly, "a fly has no property – your Aunt Selina had. Oh, my dear," she added, darting away at a tangent, "to think that last night you and Basil should have been witnesses of a melodrama at the Marlow Theatre, at the very time this real tragedy was taking place in the rural country."

      "It's a most dreadful affair," murmured Peter, laying aside the paper. "Had I not better go down to Rose Cottage and offer my services?"

      "No," said Mrs. Octagon sharply, "don't mix yourself up in this dreadful affair. Few people know that Selina was my sister, and I don't want everyone to be condoling with me on this tragedy."

      "But we must do something," said Juliet quickly.

      "We will wait, my dear. But I don't want more publicity than is necessary."

      "But I have told some of our friends that Aunt Selina is a relative."

      "Then you should not have done so," replied her mother, annoyed. "However, people soon forget names, and the thing may not be noticed."

      "My dear," said Octagon, seriously, "you should not be ashamed of your sister. She may not have your renown nor rank, still – "

      "I know my own knowing," interrupted the lady rather violently, and crushing her meek husband with a look. "Selina and I are strangers, and have been for years. What are the circumstances of the case? I have not seen Selina for over fifteen years. I hear nothing about her. She suddenly writes to me, asking if my dear children may call and see her – that was a year ago. You insisted that they should go, Peter, because relatives should be friendly. I consented, as I heard from Mr. Hale that Selina was rich, and fancied she might leave her money to my children. Juliet has called several times – "

      "More than that," interrupted Juliet in her turn, "both Basil and I have called nearly every month. We sometimes went and did not tell you, mother, as you seemed so annoyed that we should visit her."

      "I consented only that you might retain her goodwill and get what money she might leave," said Mrs. Octagon obstinately. "There is nothing in common between Selina and me."

      "There was nothing in common," put in Octagon softly.

      "I know she is dead. You need not remind me of that unpleasant fact,

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