door, wrapped in the dismal
darkness of the staircase, listening intently, as it were, for the
coming of a footstep.

In the meantime, Sir Adrian, not dissuaded from his determination to
search the tower for the missing bangle, runs gayly up the grand
staircase, traverses the corridors and galleries, and finally comes
to the first of the iron-bound doors. Opening it, he stands upon the
landing that leads to the other door by means of the small stone
staircase. Here he pauses.

Is it some vague shadowy sense of danger that makes him stand now as
though hesitating? A quick shiver rune through his veins.

"How cold it is," he says to himself, "even on this hot day, up in this
melancholy place!" Yet, he is quite unconscious of the ears that are
listening for his lightest movement, of the wicked eyes that are
watching him through a chink in the opposite door!

Now he steps forward again, and, mounting the last flight of stairs,
opens the fatal door and looks into the room. Even now it occurs to him
how unpleasant might be the consequences should the door close and the
secret lock fasten him in against his will. He pushes the door well
open, and holds it so, and then tries whether it can fall to again of
its own accord, and so make a prisoner of him.

No; it stands quite open, immovable apparently, and so, convinced that
he is safe enough, he commences his search. Then, swift as lightning, a
form darts from its concealed position, rushes up the stone staircase,
and, stealthily creeping still nearer, glances into the room.

Sir Adrian's back is turned; he is stooping, looking in every corner
for the missing prize. He sees nothing, hears nothing, though a
treacherous form crouching on the threshold is making ready to seal
his doom.

Arthur Dynecourt, putting forth his hand, which neither trembles nor
falters on its deadly mission, silently lays hold of the door, and,
drawing it toward him, the secret lock clicks sharply, and separates his
victim from the world!

Stealthily even now--his evil deed accomplished--Arthur Dynecourt
retreats down the stairs, and never indeed relaxes his speed until at
length he stands panting, but relentless, in the servants' corridor
again.

Remorse he knows not. But a certain sense of fear holds him irresolute,
making his limbs tremble and bringing out cold dews upon his brow. His
rival is safely secured, out of all harm's way as far as he is
concerned. No human being saw him go to the