th make cowards of us all!'"

"You have a sharp wit, sir," says Arthur, with apparent lightness, but
pale with passion.

"I say, look here," breaks in Sir Adrian hastily, pulling out his watch;
"it must be nearly time for tea. By Jove, quite half past four, and we
know what Lady FitzAlmont will say to us if we keep her deprived of her
favorite beverage for even five minutes. Come, let us run, or
destruction will light upon our heads."

So saying, he leads the way, and soon they leave the haunted chamber and
all its gloomy associations far behind them.

CHAPTER VII.

Reluctantly, yet with a certain amount of curiosity to know what it is
he may wish to say to her, Dora wends her way to the gallery to keep her
appointment with Arthur. Pacing to and fro beneath the searching eyes
of the gaunt cavaliers and haughty dames that gleam down upon him from
their canvases upon the walls, Dynecourt impatiently awaits her coming.

"Ah, you are late!" he exclaims as she approaches. There is a tone of
authority about him that dismays her.

"Not very, I think," she responds pleasantly, deeming conciliatory
measures the best. "Why did you not come to the library? We all missed
you so much at tea!"

"No doubt," he replies sarcastically. "I can well fancy the
disappointment my absence caused; the blank looks and regretful speeches
that marked my defection. Pshaw--let you and me at least be honest to
each other! Did Florence, think you, shed tears because of my
non-coming?"

This mood of his is so strange to her that, in spite of the natural
false smoothness that belongs to her, it renders her dumb.

"Look here," he goes on savagely, "I have seen enough to-day up in that
accursed room above--that haunted chamber--to show me our game is not
yet won."

"Our game--what game?" asks Dora, with a foolish attempt at
misconception.

He laughs aloud--a wild, unpleasant, scornful laugh, that makes her
cheek turn pale. Its mirth, she tells herself, is demoniacal.

"You would get out of it now, would you?" he says. "It is too late, I
tell you. You have gone some way with me, you must go the rest. I want
your help, and you want mine. Will you draw back now, when the prize is
half won, when a little more labor will place it within your grasp?"

"But there must be no violence," she gasps; "no attempt at--"

"What is it you would say?" he interrupts stonily. "Collect yourself;
you surely do not know what you are hinting at. Viole