eam
from his dessert. Then he put the kitten on the floor beside it.

"Here, little one. Lick this up. It's fancy eating. Suzanne's sorry. I
know she is."

The kitten, with the greed of its kind, devoured the cream, covering
its small nose and whiskers with a pinkish film. Suzanne sat back in
her chair, fingering her bracelets, her eyes on Eric's face. John
watched the kitten, and Eric watched, too--watched tensely, for he
sensed what would happen to it.

The kitten finished the cream, licked its paws and whiskers and turned
to walk away. Then it spun around in a frantic convulsion, and in a
moment lay dead on its back, its tiny fed tongue protruding, its paws
rigid.

Outside, the storm glowered, and in the chartreuse light of the forked
lightning, the great chandelier was turned to a sickly radiance.
Thunder rolled like muffled drums.

Suddenly Suzanne began to laugh, peal after peal of terrible laughter,
and then, after a glare of lightning, the big chandelier winked out.
The room was plunged into stormy darkness, and they could hear the
rain lashing through the garden to hurl itself against the windows.

"Don't be frightened, Suzanne." It was John's solicitous voice, and it
was followed by a quick movement from Suzanne's side of the table.

A sheet of blue-green light illumined the room for an instant, and
Eric saw Suzanne struggling in her husband's arms, one jeweled arm
uplifted and in her hand a shining dagger.

* * * * *

With a bound that was almost involuntary, Eric reached them and struck
at the knife in Suzanne's hand. It clattered to the floor. And as
though the fury of the storm and Suzanne's madness both were spent,
the slashing rain and the lightning stopped abruptly, and Suzanne
ceased to struggle.

"Light the candles, Eric--quickly--on the mantel to your right!
Suzanne is hurt!"

In the candle-light, palely golden and swaying, Eric saw Suzanne
slumped limply in John's arms. The hem of her golden dress was redly
wet and one cream-colored little shoe was fast becoming soaked with
blood from a slash across the instep.

"Let's get her over to the window-seat, Eric. Do something for
her!--Oh, sweet-heart, don't moan like that!" There was no question or
reproach in John's voice, only compassion.

Eric took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves. His mouth was grimly
set, his hands steady, his voice crisply professional. "Take off those
shoes, John. She'll--be hers