over and over
again, was the dread word MURDER. By day it haunted him also; it stared
up at him from the white cloth of the breakfast table, forbidding him
to eat; he read it on floor and walls and ceiling; he saw it in bloody
characters that straggled across the very sky; wherever he turned his
haggard gaze there he needs must read it.

And then--there were the footsteps. All day long they tramped up and
down the stairs outside--everyday sounds that he had never heeded
before, but now they were warnings to hearken to and shudder at, and he
would sit pretending to read but with ears straining for the sound of
feet upon the landing or on the stair. Now they were feet that
crept--the stealthy steps of one that lurked to catch him unaware; or
again, they were the loud tramp of those who came with authority to drag
him to doom, and he would watch the door, staring wide-eyed, waiting for
the thundering knock he expected yet which never came. All day long they
haunted him, and at night, locked within his bedroom, he must needs lift
heavy head from the pillow to hearken with ears straining even yet,
until, haggard and worn, he had shivered and groaned and wept himself to
sleep, only to awake and start up in sweating terror, thinking he heard
a fierce hand knocking, knocking upon the outer door.

Thus, for three long days Spike had lived in torment, and to-night, as
he leaned throbbing head between clutching hands, his haggard eyes
sought vainly for that fell word which he could read everywhere except
in the newspaper before him; his sufferings had grown almost beyond his
strength, for to his old torments was added harrowing suspense.

"Why?" "Why?" "Why" was the word that stared at him from ceiling and
walls and blue expanse of heaven; why was it there and not in the
papers? Could it be that it was lying there yet, that awful, still
thing, lying as he remembered it, as he could see it now, its ghastly
features hidden among the leaves that rotted, its long arms outflung and
strong hands griped among the grass with clutching fingers--could it
be?--

"Arthur--boy--what's the matter?"

Spike started and looked up to find Hermione beside him, and
instinctively he shrank away.

"Arthur--oh, what is it? Are you sick?"

"N-no, why?"

"You were moaning."

"Oh, well, I--I'm all right, I guess. Got a headache, that's all."

"Why have you avoided me lately, Arthur? I'm not angry any more, I'm
only--disappointed."

"Y' mean