I feared that in her
fury she would overpower me. At length, however, I managed to master
her; but her strength was far from exhausted, and she would not yield.
She was mad; time was passing. I could not afford to be nice in my
methods, so I contrived to stun her, and proceeded to tie her hands
with my handkerchief. Then, panting, I stood up to survey the floor.

I may be forgiven, perhaps, if at that frightful crisis I was not
perfectly cool, and could not decide on the instant upon the wisest
course of action to pursue. Sir Cyril was insensible, and a little
circle of blood was forming round the dagger; Deschamps was
insensible, with a dark bruise on her forehead, inflicted during our
struggle; Rosa was insensible--I presumed from excess of emotion at
the sudden fright.

I gazed at the three prone forms, pondering over my handiwork and that
of Chance. What should be the next step? Save for my own breathing,
there was a deathlike silence. The light from the empty room above
rained down upon us through the trap, illuminating the still faces
with its yellow glare. Was any other person in the house? From what
Sir Cyril had said, and from my own surmises, I thought not. Whatever
people Deschamps might have employed to carry messages, she had
doubtless dismissed them. She and Rosa had been alone in the building.
I can understand now that there was something peculiarly attractive to
the diseased imagination of Deschamps in the prospect of inviting her
victim to the snare, and working vengeance upon a rival unaided,
unseen, solitary in that echoing and deserted mansion. I was horribly
perplexed. It struck me that I ought to be gloomily sorrowful, but I
was not. At the bottom of my soul I felt happy, for Rosa was saved.

It was Rosa who first recovered consciousness, and her movement in
sitting up recalled me to my duty. I ran to Sir Cyril, and, kneeling
down so as to screen his body from her sight, I drew the dagger from
its sheath, and began hastily, with such implements as I could
contrive on the spur of the moment, to attend to his wound.

"What has happened?" Rosa inquired feebly.

I considered my reply, and then, without turning towards her, I spoke
in a slow, matter-of-fact voice.

"Listen carefully to what I say. There has been a plot to--to do you
injury. But you are not hurt. You are, in fact, quite well--don't
imagine anything else. Sir Cyril Smart is here; he's hurt; Deschamps
has wounded him. Deschamps is