k with the bright stones before too late.
Her power going soon. Rachel die in three days, and then gifts go away
from Rachel's baby. No more power hate or get bright stones. Tell her
quick, missis. I make you come here today so you can go back tell her.
All night and all morning I stand here make you come to me. Now, go
back quick, tell my baby. Three days! Eight o'clock on third night,
Rachel die."

As strangely as she had appeared, the Malay withdrew into her wretched
shanty and closed the door.

Sophia Ozanne never knew by what means and in what manner she reached
her home that day, but at about five o'clock she came into the hall of
Tiptree House, and was met by her daughter Rosalie with the news that
Rosanne had got up from her bed and left the house, taking a suitcase
with her.

"And, oh, mother, I could see that she was in a high fever, her cheeks
were so flushed and her eyes like fire! What shall we do?"

Her mother sat down and wiped great beads of moisture from her pallid
face.

"I think we will pray, Rosalie," she said slowly.

It was still broad afternoon when Rosanne walked openly into Syke
Ravenal's shop, bag in hand. The benevolent-faced old man, occupied in
cleaning the works of a watch, looked up with the bland inquiring
glance of a tradesman to a customer. But his face changed when he saw
her eyes.

"You have news?" he asked, in a low tone.

"Take me to the inner room," she ordered curtly. Without demur, he led
the way. The moment the door closed on them she flung the heavy
leather bag on to the table.

"Take them," she cried wildly; "take them back! They are all there.
Not one is missing."

"Hush, my child--hush!" he gently urged. But she would not be hushed.

"I hate you," she said passionately. "I curse the day I entered this
shop, an innocent girl, and was beguiled by you and your son and my mad
passion for diamonds into becoming your tool and accomplice. Oh, how I
hate you! I can never betray you because of my oath, but I curse you
both, and I pray I may never see or hear of you again."

"That's all right, my child," he said soothingly. She threw him one
glance of loathing and contempt and walked from the place.

Rosanne had taken to her bed again, and this time when they brought the
doctor she was too ill to object, too ill to do anything but lie
staring in a sort of mental and physical coma at the ceiling above her.

"Let her be," said the old-fashioned fa