It was in a comfortable-looking house, surrounded by a garden, in the most attractive part of a pleasant city not two hundred miles from the nation’s capital, that the mother of the pretty maids sat sewing one day in early October. She was listening for the first footstep which should announce the return of her girls from school. And presently she heard the front door shut, then a quick, light step on the stair, and a voice coming nearer and nearer, singing,— “Where are you going, my pretty maid?” Mrs. Holmes asked. “At the rate at which you are travelling I think you will go straight through the wall. Where are the others?”…
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