She walked but feebly, and her countenance was deathly pale. Her
dress, as she came beneath the lamp, was, I saw, coarse, yet clean,
and her beautiful, regular features, which in her photograph had
held me in such fascination, were even more sweet and more
matchless than I had believed them to be. I stood before her
dumbfounded in admiration.
In silence she bowed gracefully, and then looked at me with
astonishment, apparently wondering what I, a perfect stranger,
required of her.
"Miss Elma Heath, I presume?" I exclaimed at last. "May I
introduce myself to you? My name is Gordon Gregg, English by birth,
cosmopolitan by instinct. I have come here to ask you a question—a
question that concerns yourself. Lydia Moreton has sent me to
you."
I noticed that her great brown eyes watc
