. She glided down
the corridor, down the sweeping stair-way, the soft carpeting muffling
every tread--the dim night-lamps lighting her on her way.

No human sound startled her. All in the house were peacefully
asleep--all save that flying figure, and one other wicked watcher. She
gained the door in safety. It yielded to her touch. She opened it,
and was out alone in the black, gusty night.

Harriet Kingsland's brave heart quailed only for a moment; then she
plunged resolutely forward into the gloom. Slipping, stumbling,
falling, rising again, the wind beating in her face, the branches
catching like angry hands at her garments--still she hurried on. It
was a long, long, tortuous path, but it came to an end. The roar of
the sea sounded awfully loud as it rose in sullen majesty, the flags of
the stone terrace rang under her feet. Panting, breathless, cold as
death, she leaned against the iron railing, her hands pressed hard over
her tumultuous heart.

It was light here. A fitful midnight moon, pale and feeble, was
breaking through a rift in the clouds, and shedding its sickly glimmer
over the black earth and raging sea. To her eyes, accustomed to the
dense darkness, every object was plainly visible. She strained her
gaze over the waves to catch the coming boat she knew was to bear those
she had come to meet; she listened breathlessly to every sound. But
for a weary while she listened, and watched, and waited in vain. What
was that? A footstep crashing through the under-wood near at hand.
She turned with a wordless cry of terror. A tall, dark figure emerged
from the trees and strode straight toward her. An awful voice spoke:

"I swore by the Lord who made me I would murder you if you ever came
again to meet that man. False wife, accursed traitoress, meet your
doom!"

She uttered a long, low cry. She recognized the voice--it was the
voice of her husband; she recognized the form--her husband's--towering
over her, with a long, gleaming dagger in his hand.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

ON THE STONE TERRACE.

When Sybilla Silver parted from Lady Kingsland outside the chamber
door, she went straight to her own room, and began her preparations for
that night's work.

The flaming red spots, all foreign to her usual complexion, blazed on
either cheek-bone; her black eyes shone like the eyes of a tigress
crouched in a jungle.

But she never faltered--she never wavered in her deadly purpose. The
aim of her