The more she thought on it, the more the idea got root-hold in her
brain. In order to be revenged for the humiliation which she had helped
to put upon Elsa, Andor had chosen this means for bringing her to
everlasting shame and sorrow--the young Count murdered outside her door,
in the act of sneaking into the house by a back way, at dead of night,
while Ignacz Goldstein was from home; Leopold Hirsch--her tokened
fiance--a murderer, condemned to hang for a brutal crime; she disgraced
for ever, cursed if not killed by her father, who did not trifle in the
matter of his daughter's good name. . . . All that was Andor's projected
revenge for what she had done to Elsa.

The thought of it was too horrible. It beat into her brain until she
felt that her head must burst as under the blows of a sledge-hammer or
else that she must go mad.

She pushed back the matted hair from her temples, and looked round the
tiny, dark, lonely room in abject terror. From far away came the shrill
whistle of the engine which bore her father away to Kecskemet. It must
be nearly half-past nine, then, and close on half an hour since she had
been left here alone with her terrors. Yet another half-hour and . . .

No, no! This she felt that she could not endure--not another half-hour
of this awful, death-dealing suspense. Anything would be better than
that--death at Leopold's hands--a quick gasp, a final agony--yes! That
would be briefer and better--and perhaps Leo's heart would misgive
him--perhaps . . . but in any case, anything _must_ be better than this
suspense.

She struggled to her feet; her knees shook under her: for the moment she
could not have moved if her very life had depended on it. So she stood
still, propped against the table, her hands clutching convulsively at
its edge for support, and her eyes dilated and staring, still searching
round the room wildly for the key.

At last she felt that she could walk; she tottered back across the room,
back to the door, and her twitching fingers were once more fumbling with
the bolts.

The house was so still and the air was so oppressive. When she paused in
her fumbling--since her fingers refused her service--she could almost
hear that movement again behind the acacia tree outside, and that
rustling among the leaves.

She gave a wild gasp of terror and ran back to the chair--like a
frightened feline creature, swift and silent--and sank into it, still
gasping, her whole body shaken now as with f