a semicircle, in horror-struck silence, on the terrace.
The light of half a dozen lanterns streamed redly on the stone
flooring, but redder than that lurid light, a great pool of blood lay
gory before them. The iron railing, painted creamy white, was all
clotted with jets of blood, and clinging to a projecting knob,
something fluttered in the bleak blast, but they did not see it. All
eyes were riveted on the awful sight before them--every tongue was
paralyzed. Edwards, the valet, was the first to break the dreadful
silence.

"My master!" he cried, shrilly; "he will fall!"

He dropped his lantern and sprung forward just in time and no more.
The young baronet reeled and fell heavily backward. The sight of that
blood--the life-blood of his bride--seemed to freeze the very heart in
his body. With a low moan he lay in his servant's arms like a dead man.

"He has fainted," said the voice of Sybilla Silver. "Lift him up and
carry him to the house."

"Wait!" cried some one. "What is this?"

He tore the fluttering garment off the projection and held it up to the
light.

"My lady's Injy scarf!"

No one knew who spoke--all recognized it. It was a little Cashmere
shawl Lady Kingsland often wore. Another thrilling silence followed;
then--

"The Lord be merciful!" gasped a house-maid. "She's been murdered, and
we in our beds!"

Sybilla Silver, leaning lightly against the railing, turned
authoritatively to Edwards:

"Take your master to his room, Edwards. It is no use of lingering here
now; we must wait until morning. Some awful deed has been done, but it
may not be my lady murdered."

"How comes her shawl there, then?" asked the old butler. "Why can't
she be found in the house?"

"I don't know. It is frightfully mysterious, but nothing more can be
done to-night."

"Can't there?" said the butler. "Jackson and Fletcher will go to the
village and get the police and search every inch of the park before
daylight. The murderer can't be far away."

"Probably not, Mr. Norris. Do as you please about the police, only if
you ever wish your master to recover from that death-like swoon, you
will carry him at once to the house and apply restoratives."

She turned away with her loftiest air of hauteur, and Miss Silver had
always been haughty to the servants. More than one dark glance
followed her now.

"You're a hard one, you are, if there ever was a hard one!" said the
butler. "There's been no luck in the