"Beautiful? Why, man alive, there isn't another woman on the face of the earth that can compare with her! She is the ideal of feminine loveliness — the embodiment of all that is most charming in her sex. I tell you, she is a Hebe in the flesh! But come to the theatre to-night and judge for yourself."

      I went to the theatre. Under the circumstances, I could not well do otherwise. My impetuous friend Fred Sherwood had been ringing the praises of his latest discovered goddess in my ears for days past, and, if for no other reason than to secure a brief respite from these rhapsodies, I resolved to go and see for myself the wonderful Inez Valesco. That was the name which I read on the bills, although Fred had confidentially informed me that the lady s true name was Helen Bates — which, to my uncultivated and matter-of-fact taste, was much to be preferred to the Spanish-sounding title. Well, I went to the theatre, and I was forced to admit that for once, at least, Fred's opinion was a correct one. Inez Valesco was a beautiful woman — dazzlingly, almost startlingly beautiful. Pardon me from any attempt at detailed description. Every man, I suppose, has his own conception of what a beautiful woman should be. Take the ideal which you cherish in your own mind, and let that serve for Inez. The only generalities that need be conformed with are in the matter of complexion and figure. There could be no picture of Valesco, except it be a brunette, with eyes and hair of surpassing blackness, and a skin of the richest tints of olive brown and deepest rose. There could be no picture of her, except it embodied a form of the most perfect outline of the most voluptuously-rounded mould. With these restrictions let your imagination have full sweep. You will not conceive of any beauty more remarkable than that possessed by Inez Valesco.

      "What do you think of her?" were Fred's first words when we had come out of the theatre. "Did I exaggerate her. charms? Did I claim for her more than she deserves?"

      "She is certainly the handsomest woman I ever saw, Fred — so far as physical beauty goes."

      "But didn't you like her acting?"

      "To be candid," I answered, "no. I have my notions, you know, Fred, on the matter of all art. One of them, as I've often told you, is the necessity of being sincere. Inez Valesco impresses me as being just the contrary."

      "What do you mean by being sincere? Do you mean that she did not really love Armand, or that she only pretended to be suffering from consumption? Really, old follow, a woman can't be sincere when she is acting Camille! I don't see how it is possible ever to be sincere on the stage. It is all mere acting, as we know — the mere assuming to be something which the actor, of course, is not."

      "Well," I answered, "we won't go into a discussion of art in the abstract, Fred, but I simply repeat that your friend, Miss Valesco, strikes me as being insincere — and I imagine, if you ever come to know her in private life, you will discover that my judgment of her is a correct one."

      Little I thought that night that the occasion would come, and that, too, within a brief time, when both my friend and I would have reason enough to find my hastily-formed opinion all too true. I spoke honestly enough when I said that I did not like Inez Valesco as an actress, and yet some peculiar charm about her led me to frequently visit the theatre after that first night. The more I saw of the woman the more deeply was I impressed with her physical splendor — for that word fitly describes her appearance — and, at the same time, the more thoroughly was I convinced that under her visible loveliness there was hidden a strange and unfathomable nature. Meantime, my friend became so enamored of his idol that he talked of but little else. It did not surprise me in the least when he found the means of making her acquaintance — for Fred Sherwood was young, rich and good-looking, with very little to do in the world but gratify his own desires — nor was I astonished when, a month later, he came to me beaming with happiness, and announced that Inez Valesco had consented to become his wife. I congratulated him, of course, and I tried honestly enough to share in some measure his extreme happiness; but, had the truth been confessed, I felt a sense of actual disappointment at my friend's choice. For years we had been on terms of the closest intimacy, and, being ten years his senior I had come to look upon Sherwood with somewhat of a father's affection, as well as with all a brother's love. Perhaps the very opposite bent of our natures had drawn us more closely together. I was certainly as solicitous for his welfare as I could have been were he of my own flesh and blood. Looking at this affair with the unromantic eves of a bachelor lawyer, I saw an impetuous, overconfiding, perfectly unsuspecting young man, whose fortune, talents and surroundings fitted him for the highest social position, infatuated by an actress who, whatever her personal charms might be, could not be considered the sort of woman to make a man happy as a wife. Perhaps I did her injustice, but I could not rid my mind of the thought that she had deliberately laid her snares to catch my friend in the matrimonial net. Fred Sherwoods, with independent fortunes of a quarter of a million, are not so common prizes as to be passed by without serious effort to win them. I could find out nothing at all satisfactory of the antecedents or past history of Inez Valesco. Love-blinded Fred was willing to take her just as she was, and believer her to be the angel he fancied. But how long would this delusion last? And what would be the awakening from the brief dream of bliss? The matter worried me far more than I was willing to admit, even to myself.

      One morning, as I sat in my office, an odd-looking man, middle-aged and shabbily dressed, came in, unannounced, and took a chair close to my table. I speak of him as odd-looking, and he certainly merited the term. His face was smooth, oily and round. As he removed the well-battered silk hat, palpably of a fashion of remote date, he displayed a head entirely bald, except for a light fringe of yellowish hair, which ran round on about a line with the ears. His eyes, of no discernible color, seemed always half-closed, his nose was peculiarly thin and sharp, his mouth large, full and sensual, and his double-chin and flabby cheeks suggestive of an easy-going, sanguine temperament. He wore a frock coat, shiny with age, buttoned high up at the neck, which left in doubt the exact condition of his shirt-front. For his manner, if I were to describe it in a word, I should say it was insolently familiar. He spoke in a subdued, confidential tone, as if you were his most intimate friend.

      "Pardon me, sir," he began, "but you have been recommended to me as a gentleman of unusual astuteness in your profession, and I have called to consult you on a matter of considerable delicacy. I will with your permission draw a supposititious case: Suppose a man had married a young woman, who afterwards, without any just cause, took a strong dislike to him, and endeavored in every way to secure a separation. Being a professional lady — an actress — she was able to earn her own livelihood, which she did, although her husband would gladly have supported her. Finally, she disappeared from the city where they had been living, and for more than a year the husband could get no trace of his wife. Suppose, at last, he finds her here in New York playing a profitable engagement at a leading theatre. He seeks an interview with her, which only after much effort is obtained. Although he is poor and sadly in need of money — for he has spent everything in his search after his wayward wife — still he offers to take her back and care for her and overlook all that has passed. She refuses his kind overtures, declares that she will disown him as her husband, and, finally, reveals the fact that she is about to marry again — this time a man of unlimited wealth. She declares further that she has instituted proceedings for divorce, on the ground of desertion, and that she is certain of winning her case. The poor husband first pleads, then reasons, and, at last, threatens. She defies him, and absolutely refuses to meet him again. But, knowing that the moment his claims upon her are made public, it will jeopardize the fortune which she hopes to marry — she cares really nothing for the man, for she has no heart to care for anybody — knowing her danger, she offers to compromise with her lawful husband!"

      Up to this point the words had rolled out of the stranger's mouth in so continuous an oily flow that I could not, for the life of me, interpose a syllable. But now, as he paused a moment, I abruptly addressed him:

      "Sir, before you proceed any further," I said, "I wish you would state to me, as briefly as possible, what you want. All this narrative is of no possible interest to me, inasmuch as I cannot become your counsel under any circumstances. If it is to get my advice ——"

      "Pardon me again," he interrupted, with the most exasperating coolness, I had nearly finished my little story. The lady, as I was saying, offers to compromise with her husband. She agrees that if he will keep out of the way until she is wedded to her latest victim she will immediately after the ceremony pay over the sum of ten thousand dollars in cash on condition that the lawful husband shall not interpose any obstacles to the securing of the divorce, and that he shall keep their past relations a secret. Now, then, what this husband wants to know, from high legal authority like yourself, sir, is whether it will be politic — that is, to the best interests of all concerned — for him to accept the lady s proposal. He is sadly in need of the money ——"

      "Once more, sir," I exclaimed, rising to my feet and speaking in a tone which could not be mistaken, "I must say to you that I cannot become your counsel, nor, in such a case as you have narrated, can I give you any advice. As my engagements for the day are pressing, I shall be obliged to bid you good-morning."

      "My dear sir," rejoined the insolent scoundrel, without the slightest embarrassment, "I should not, of course, seek your valuable services without intending to pay you liberally for any favor that you may do me. I simply desire your advice."

      "For the third and last time, I tell you that I have no advice to offer. The very statement of your case I consider as an insult. If you suppose that I would in any way become connected with such a piece of business, you are very seriously mistaken in your man. I have nothing more to say."

      The bland stranger eyed me through his half-closed lids, wiped his oily face with a very large and very dirty handkerchief, replaced his hat upon his bald head, and, holding out his hand, arose to depart.

      "Really, sir, I'm very sorry that we could not have come to an understanding. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to have profited by your advice. I think you make a mistake in not entering into this case. However, if you're determined — why, there is nothing more to be said. My name, sir, is Colonel Wilmington Storrs. You may have occasion to remember it, should this affair become public. Once more begging your pardon, I will bid you good-morning!"

      With one hand thrust in the breast of his coat, and the other swinging a small walking-stick. Colonel Wilmington Storrs passed jauntily and insolently out of the office.

      It was, I think, just a week after this episode that on opening the morning paper I found, under flaring heads and numerous exclamation points, this startling announcement: "Mysterious Murder!" "A Tragedy in an East-side Hotel!" "An Unknown Assassin who Leaves no Clue Behind!" "The Victim a Stranger whose Body Nobody Claims!" "Suspicions of a Deep-laid Plot and the End of a Strange Career!" "Who is Colonel Wilmington Storrs?" It need hardly be explained that it was this concluding caption which riveted my eye, and forthwith awakened a peculiar interest in the account which followed. That account was made to stretch through two and a half columns, but the meat of it may be thus briefly condensed: Colonel Wilmington Storrs, a somewhat eccentric character, with no acquaintances in the city, had been stopping for some three weeks at the Ochre House, in East Blank street. He appeared like a kindly, inoffensive, talkative man, and claimed to have been a commission merchant in Australia. He occupied a small third-story room. He was last seen by the inmates of the house at dinner Tuesday evening. He was heard to enter his room late that night. No one was known to have been with him. As he did not appear at breakfast the next morning, a servant had gone to his room and found him dead in his bed. There were no marks of violence about his person. But a post-mortem examination revealed the fact that he had taken poison. The theory of suicide, which at first seemed plausible, was overthrown by the fact that no vial or other receptacle for holding the poison could be found, either in the room or upon his person, while an examination of his papers disclosed a certain letter, indicating that he had that night been to keep an engagement, the nature of which, while a mystery, was undoubtedly of a most important character. This letter, evidently in a woman s handwriting, although disguised, was as follows:

      There was neither address nor signature to this missive. Put in connection with a number of other notes tn the same handwriting which were found in the dead man's pocket, it became evident that he had been holding communication with some woman regarding a matter of the deepest import, and one concerning which it was all-essential that he should keep silent. The theory of the police appeared to be that Col. Wilmington Storrs was in possession of a secret which affected the standing of someone high in social life; that he had entered into negotiations to receive a certain sum of money to keep this secret; that he went to the appointed place Tuesday night to make final arrangements; and that it was while there the poison was administered, although the effects did not show themselves until he had returned home. If it could be discovered where he spent that evening a most important link in the chain of evidence would be established, but there was not the slightest clue to this knowledge. Meantime, nobody had appeared to claim the body.

      This, in substance, was the account contained in the newspapers. I doubt if I should have read it at all had it not been for my recollection of the interview with Col. Wilmington Storrs. Stupid as it may appear to the quick-witted reader — incomprehensible, indeed, as it appears now to me — I had not once associated the story told me by the brazenly impudent stranger with anything which, in any way, concerned affairs in which I was personally interested. Without attempting to excuse this dullness, I would only say that the events which are here recorded consecutively occurred really with many breaks and interruptions; no that probably the last thing on earth I was thinking of, when Col. Wilmington Storrs related his supposititious case, was Inez Valesco. Nor afterwards, had I ever thought of drawing a parallel between the stranger's narrative and the possible history of Fred Sherwood's affianced wife. It was not until I had finished the newspaper account that so much as a glimmering of the truth dawned upon me; but, the suspicion once awakened, I seemed to jump at the final conclusion by an almost instantaneous process of reasoning. At least it was not too late to save my friend now. His marriage with Inez Valence had been hastened on, so that it was to take place on Thursday of the following week. I felt that there was important work for me to do before that date. By the time I had reached the office I was in a state of intense excitement, and as thoroughly convinced of the truth of my suspicions as if the end had already been reached.

      My first step was to visit the Morgue to make certain that there was no mistake in the identity of the murdered man. A single look at the body was enough to satisfy me on this point. There surely could never have been a second Col. Wilmington Storrs. My next move was to examine the letters which had been found upon the stranger's person. As the newspaper had said, they were unmistakably in a woman's handwriting, although it was evident that an attempt had been made to disguise the chirography. In addition to the note which I have already reproduced, there were four others, all bearing date within the past fortnight, and all referring, more or less directly, to the settlement of some mysterious claim, which the person addressed held against the writer. Although vague and non-committal, these letters became at once intelligible when read in the light of the information which Col. Wilmington Storrs had imparted to me. Beyond all question, the missives had been penned by the runaway wife to the husband whose silence she was anxious to purchase. That husband was Col. Wilmington Storrs. Who was the wife?

      I succeeded, after a good deal of difficulty, in getting possession of one of these letters. It was the key with which I must unlock the mystery. That evening I called upon Sherwood. Incidentally, I referred to the murder in the Ochre House, but I found that my friend had not even read the printed reports. He was too much taken up with thoughts of his coming marriage to concern himself about the ordinary affairs of the day.

      "By the way," said he, "I want you to dine with Inez and me to-morrow evening. You know you have promised often to do so, and I shall insist this time on keeping you to your word."

      With pleasure I would dine with them. It was the very opportunity which I most desired. All that next day I spent in reflecting upon the course I should pursue in order to carry out the delicate task I had imposed upon myself. The plan which I finally determined on was bold and heroic; but I did not flinch except when I thought of the blow which it would be to Sherwood. Still, there was no choice. A thousand-fold better that he should suffer for a brief time than that he should go on to the terrible fate which I felt awaited him. I went to his rooms an hour before the appointed time, that I might put into execution the first and to me the most difficult part of my programme.

      "Fred," I began abruptly, "have you read any accounts yet of the Ochre House tragedy?"

      "Yes, since your calling my attention to it I waded through the story."

      "Have you any idea who killed that man?"

      "I? Why, old man, what is the matter with you? You look as solemn as a graveyard, and your questions are enough to make me doubt your sanity!"

      "A woman committed that murder — a woman that you know!"

      "A woman I know? What the deuce do you mean?"

      "Precisely what I say — a woman that you know! Nay, more — a woman that you think you love! That man in the Ochre House was poisoned by Inez Valesco!"

      Sherwood sprang to his feet with clenched fists and gleaming eyes. I thought for the moment he would strike me, and I would not have been greatly surprised had he done so.

      "Jack Bentley," he said, in a voice that showed the mighty effort he was putting forth to restrain himself, "had any man but you uttered those words I would have knocked him down. If this is a jest ——"

      "My dear boy," I interrupted, and from the bottom of my heart I pitied him, "don't think that I would jest on such a subject as this." Then I drew him back to his chair, and briefly, concisely, with lawyer-like logic, laid before him the whole case, as I had worked it out in my own mind. He listened without uttering a word. I know well enough that his reason was fighting a terrible conflict with his love. He did in the end precisely what I had anticipated he would do.

      "It is a gross, a wicked insult to her; but you are at liberty to go ahead and put your infamous suspicion to any test you please. I know she is innocent, and that is enough. Remember, you have agreed that if she comes out of this ordeal, as I know she will, you will never so much as hint of this matter again."

      "I agree that if Inez Valesco does not, this night, with her own lips, confess the crime I charge her with, I will never refer to the subject again, and I will go on my knees in humble apology before both you and her!"

      An hour later, in the private room of a fashionable uptown restaurant, a party of four sat down to a sumptuous dinner. This party was made up of Inez Valesco, her lover, Fred Sherwood, a journalist friend of mine who had written a play for Inez, and myself. These at least were all the persons who appeared on the surface of the scene. If one had drawn back the heavy damask curtains that hung in front of the bay-window a fifth actor in the drama might have been discovered, and this fifth person was a detective. The wine flowed freely, Inez Valesco's wonderful voice rang out in musical laughter, the conversation was brightened by many a repartee, and the party seemed altogether in jolly mood. Chauncey Dent, the Journalist and dramatist, at length touched upon the Ochre House tragedy, as the affair was still a topic of public interest. That was my cue, and I took it up promptly.

      "Do you know," I began, "that that affair reminds me of an episode of singular interest? With your permission I will relate it in the form of a story. Some few years ago there was a young lady playing in one of the Melbourne theatres who married an Australian speculator because she thought he was rich. She found that she had been mistaken, and so she attempted in every possible way to get rid of her husband. Finally she disappeared, and no trace of her could be found. The husband traveled the world over, and at last turned up here in New York. To his pleasure and surprise he discovered his truant wife, who had become a famous actress under an assumed name. He sought her out, and learned that she was on the point of marrying another man — a very rich and honorable man — whom she had infatuated by her beauty. Further, she had instituted proceedings for divorce from her lawful husband on the ground of desertion. His appearance on the scene at this moment was unfortunate in the extreme. It frustrated all her plans, threatened to rob her of the fortune she was about to wed, and, indeed, drove her to desperation. She at first made an overture to buy up her husband — to pay him liberally if he would forever hold his peace. But while the negotiations were pending she resolved upon a surer way of getting rid of him. She went to a certain druggist in the Sixth avenue, and secured a poison which was slow in its workings, but terribly sure in its results. Then she appointed a night — it was a Tuesday night — on which to meet her husband. He went to her rooms late, and with steady hand she poured out the wine which contained the fatal drug. He returned to his own apartments and had time to retire to his bed before the poison had done its work. His body was found the next day, and the crime was regarded an an impenetrable mystery. The wife had seemingly removed the only obstacle to fortune and position. There was not the slightest possibility that her guilt would be discovered. She had left no clue behind her. None, did I say? Yes, she had written to the murdered man three or four notes in a disguised hand. One of those notes came into a lawyer's possession. He compared it with the acknowledged handwriting of the lady, found it to be the same, and knew that he had discovered the murderer. What, then, did he do?"

      A terrible silence had fallen upon my listeners. Dent was looking alternately into my face and that of Inez Valence; Sherwood sat with his eyes riveted on the woman he loved, listening, as in a dream, to every word I uttered; while, as for the woman, never had her beauty shone out so startlingly, but never had guilt been written in more legible characters upon the human countenance. Every vestige of color was gone from her cheek. The contrast between her coal-black hair and eyes and the death-like whiteness of her skin made me start on beholding her. Altogether, it was a terrible, a pitiful scene. But, cost what it might, there was no alternative for me. I must go on to the end.

      "I will tell you what he did," I resumed, raising my voice and fixing my gaze upon Inez Valesco. "He went straight to the lover who was to be made the dupe of this murderess and told him all. He laughed the story to scorn. The lawyer then proposed to put his suspicions to a test. The lover agreed. They would dine together with the lady and a trusted friend, and the lawyer should then openly and to her face accuse the woman of her crime. And so I, standing here, do accuse you, Inez Valesco, of the deliberate murder of the man who was your husband — the man whose body was found in the Ochre House — the man who was known to the world as Col. Wilmington Storrs!"

      As I uttered these words Inez Valesco rose from her chair, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell prostrate to the floor. At the same moment the curtain parted and the detective glided noiselessly into the room.

      "You have killed her!" cried Sherwood, throwing himself by her side.

      But, even as he spoke, the great eyes opened and stared vacantly on the scene about.

      "Speak, Inez!" exclaimed Sherwood. "Speak and say that it is all a base lie!" She shrank back at his words, and then gasped out:

      "It is no lie. I killed him! I killed him!"

      And those were the last words she ever uttered. Fate was kinder to her than she had been to herself, and the spirit of Inez Valesco went forth that night to answer to its Maker for its earthly career.