ow and the cold perspiration that stands thick upon his forehead.

Nerving himself for a final effort, he lays his hand upon the door and
pushes it open. This he does with bowed head and eyes averted, afraid to
look upon his terrible work. A silence, more horrible to his guilty
conscience than the most appalling noises, follows this act; and, again
the nameless terror seizing him, he shudders and draws back, until,
finding the wall behind him, he leans against it gladly, as if for
support.

And now at last he raises his eyes. Slowly at first and cringingly, as
if dreading what they might see. Upon the board at his feet they rest
for a moment, and then glide to the next board, and so on, until his
coward eyes have covered a considerable portion of the floor.

And now, grown bolder, he lifts his gaze to the wall opposite and
searches it carefully. Then his eyes turn again to the floor. His face
ghastly, and with his eyes almost darting from their sockets, he compels
himself to bring his awful investigation to an end. Avoiding the corners
at first, as though there he expects his vile deed will cry aloud to him
demanding vengeance, he gazes in a dazed way at the center of the
apartment, and dwells upon it stupidly, until he knows he must look
further still; and then his dull eyes turn to the corners where the
dusky shadows lie, brought thither by the glare of his small lantern.
Reluctantly, but carefully, he scans the apartment, no remotest spot
escapes his roused attention. But no object, dead or living, attracts
his notice! The room is empty!

He staggers. His hold upon the door relaxes. His lamp falls to the
ground; the door closes with a soft but deadly thud behind him,
and--he is a prisoner in the haunted chamber! As the darkness closes
in upon him, and he finds himself alone with what he hardly dares to
contemplate, his senses grow confused, his brain reels; a fearful scream
issues from his lips, and he falls to the floor insensible.

CHAPTER XI.

Dora, after her interview with Arthur Dynecourt, feels indeed that all
is lost. Hope is abandoned--nothing remains but despair; and in this
instance despair gains in poignancy by the knowledge that she believes
she knows the man who could help them to a solution of their troubles if
he would or dared. No; clearly he dare not! Therefore, no assistance can
be looked for from him.

Dinner at the castle has been a promiscuous sort of entertainment for
the past th