The girl looked dully ahead.
What manner of tragedy was about to unfold itself to his gaze?
The house was situated in Central Park, West.

It was of modern architecture, a residence such as only rich men can afford to build.
It was in utter gloom; not a single light could be seen at any window.
It looked, indeed, as if tragedy sat enthroned within.

Warrington's spine wrinkled a bit as he got out of the cab and offered his hand to the girl.
Mute and mysterious as a sphinx, the girl walked to the steps, not even looking around to see if he was coming after her.

Perhaps she knew the power of curiosity.

Without hesitance she mounted the steps; he followed, a step behind.