hould have jumped on her and
hacked her to bits. I must go up to my mother now. You can think it over
and come back again."

"I don't need to think it over," he said, smiling. "That was all you
needed to make you quite perfect. You are a wonderful example of
misdirected energies. Where is your father? I will go and look after him
at once."

He took her suddenly in his arms and compelled her to kiss him; and then
Magdalena knew how glad she was that he had come.

She went with him to the door of the study.

"He is quiet," she whispered. "Perhaps he is asleep."

She left him and went down the hall, turning to wave her hand to him.
Trennahan knocked. There was no answer. He opened the door softly, then
gave a swift glance over his shoulder, entered hurriedly, and closed the
door behind him.

Suspended from the gas pipe, which was bent and leaking, was Don
Roberto. The light was dim. The purple face on the languidly revolving
body was barely visible; but as it turned slowly to the door, it
occupied a definite place among the shadows. Trennahan flung back the
curtains and opened the window, closing the lower inside blinds. A cloud
hurried across the face of the sun, as if light had no place in that
ghastly room. About the limp body and sprawling hands clung the delicate
prismatic tapestry of the spiders. It was rent in twain, and it
quivered, and threatened to drop and trail upon the floor. The little
weavers were racing about, full of anger and consternation, bent on
repair. A number had already gathered up the broken strands and were
fastening them across the body. Had Don Roberto remained undiscovered
for twenty-four hours, he might have been wrought into the tissue of
that beautiful delicate web, a grotesque intruder over whom the spiders
would doubtless have held long and puzzled counsel.

The cloud passed. The sun caught a brilliant line of colour. Trennahan
went forward hastily, and examined the long knotted strip between the
body and the ceiling.

Don Roberto had hanged himself with the American flag.

THE END

* * * * *

_By the Same Author._

Patience Sparhawk and Her Times.

His Fortunate Grace.

The Doomswoman.
(Companion volumes to "The Californians.")

A Whirl Asunder.

American Wives and English Husbands.

A Daughter of the Vine (ready shortly).

Some Novels Published by John Lane

An African Millionaire By Grant Allen

Patience Sparhawk