thrust the dagger into its scabbard, the scabbard
into her bosom, blew out the lamp, and softly opened the door. All was
still as the grave.

She locked her door securely, put the key in her pocket, and stole
toward Sir Everard's rooms. Her kid slippers fell light as snow-flakes
on the carpet. She opened the baronet's dressing-room door. It had
been his sleeping-room, too, of late. His bed stood ready prepared; a
lamp burned dimly on the dressing-table. Beside the lamp Miss Silver
placed her anonymous letter, then retreated as noiselessly as she had
entered, shut the door, and glided stealthily down the corridor, down
the stairs, along the passages, and out of the same door which my lady
had passed not ten minutes previously.

Swift as a snake, and more deadly of purpose, Sybilla glided along the
gloomy avenues of the wood toward the sea-side terrace. Every nerve
seemed strung like steel, every fiber of her body quivered to its
utmost tension. Her eyes blazed in the dark like the eyes of a wild
cat; she looked like a creature possessed of a devil.

She reached the extremity of the woodland path almost as soon as her
victim. A moment she paused, glaring upon her with eyes of fiercest
hate as she stood there alone and defenseless. The next, she drew out
the flashing stiletto. Flung away the scabbard, and advanced with it
in her hand and horrible words upon her lips.

"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!"

There was a wild shriek. In that fitful light she never doubted for a
moment but that it was her husband.

"Have mercy!" she cried. "I am innocent, Everard! Oh, for God's sake,
do not murder me!"

"Wretch--traitoress--die. You are not fit to pollute the earth longer!
Go to your grave with my hate and my curse!"

With a sudden paroxysm of mad fury the dagger was lifted--one fierce
hand gripped Harriet's throat. A choking shriek--the dagger fell--a
gurgling cry drowned in her throat--a fierce spurt of hot blood--a reel
backward and a heavy fall over the low iron railing--down, down on the
black shore beneath--and the pallid moonlight gleaming above shone on
one figure standing on the stone terrace, alone, with a dagger dripping
blood in its hand.

She leaned over the rail. Down below--far down--she could see a
slender figure, with long hair blowing in the blast, lying awfully
still on the