swiftly, and there, in
the doorway, smelling of tobacco and brandy, and shaking with coarse
laughter, is John Burrill, and beside him, with clenched hands, swollen
temples, drawn, white lips, stands Francis Lamotte. Stands! No. He
reels, he clings to the door-frame for support; his _enemy_ is upon him.

Sybil draws herself erect; the red blood flames to her face; the fire
darts from her eyes; she lifts one slender arm and points at the reeling
figure; then there rings out a burst of mad, mocking laughter.

"Ha! ha! ha! Frank Lamotte, I have settled my account with you."

Then turning swiftly upon Burrill, and with even fiercer fury she
shrieks:

"Out, out, out of my sight! I am almost done with you, too. Go back to
your wine and your wallowing in the gutter; your days are numbered."

The awful look upon her face, the defiant hatred in her voice, the
sudden strength and firmness of her whole bearing, Constance shuddered
at and never forgot. Frank Lamotte, making a monstrous effort for
self-control, gasped, let go his hold on the door frame, lifted his hand
to his temples, and came a few steps into the room. Outside, on the
stairway, was the rustle of woman's garments, the light fall of swift
feet. In another moment Mrs. Lamotte, followed by Mrs. Aliston, enters
the room, pushing past the gaping and astonished Burrill with scant
ceremony. Then, Sybil's strength deserts her as John Burrill, recalled
to a sense of his own importance, advances, and seems about to address
her. She utters a cry of abhorrence and terror, and, throwing out her
hands to ward off his approach, reels, falls, and is caught in the
supporting arms of Constance and Mrs. Lamotte.

While they are applying restoratives, Frank sees the propriety of
withdrawing from the scene, but no such motives of delicacy or decency
ever find lodgment in the brain of John Burrill, and leering with tipsy
gravity, he presses close to the bedside and poisons the air with his
reeking breath. Constance flushes with anger, and glances at Mrs.
Lamotte. That lady looks up uneasily, and seems to hesitate, and then
Mrs. Aliston rises to the occasion, and covers herself with glory.

Looking blandly up into the man's face, she lays one fat, gloved hand
upon his arm, and says, in a low, confidential tone:

"Come this way one moment, sir, if you please," and she fairly leads the
wondering and unsuspecting victim from the room. A second later he is
standing in the passage, the