he thought to himself, stepping back; "she might do it,
too--perhaps she has." He could not hear anything save the odd
chattering of a toucan aroused by the light she had switched on.
Perspiration stood out on his brow. He shook the knob, pushed a bell
for a servant, called for keys which had been made for every door,
called for a chisel and hammer.

"Aileen," he said, "if you don't open the door this instant I will see
that it is opened. It can be opened quick enough."

Still no sound.

"Damn it!" he exclaimed, becoming wretched, horrified. A servant
brought the keys. The right one would not enter. A second was on the
other side. "There is a bigger hammer somewhere," Cowperwood said.
"Get it! Get me a chair!" Meantime, with terrific energy, using a large
chisel, he forced the door.

There on one of the stone benches of the lovely room sat Aileen, the
level pool of water before her, the sunrise glow over every thing,
tropic birds in their branches, and she, her hair disheveled, her face
pale, one arm--her left--hanging down, ripped and bleeding, trickling a
thick stream of rich, red blood. On the floor was a pool of blood,
fierce, scarlet, like some rich cloth, already turning darker in places.

Cowperwood paused--amazed. He hurried forward, seized her arm, made a
bandage of a torn handkerchief above the wound, sent for a surgeon,
saying the while: "How could you, Aileen? How impossible! To try to
take your life! This isn't love. It isn't even madness. It's foolish
acting."

"Don't you really care?" she asked.

"How can you ask? How could you really do this?"

He was angry, hurt, glad that she was alive, shamed--many things.

"Don't you really care?" she repeated, wearily.

"Aileen, this is nonsense. I will not talk to you about it now. Have
you cut yourself anywhere else?" he asked, feeling about her bosom and
sides.

"Then why not let me die?" she replied, in the same manner. "I will
some day. I want to."

"Well, you may, some day," he replied, "but not to-night. I scarcely
think you want to now. This is too much, Aileen--really impossible."

He drew himself up and looked at her--cool, unbelieving, the light of
control, even of victory, in his eyes. As he had suspected, it was not
truly real. She would not have killed herself. She had expected him
to come--to make the old effort. Very good. He would see her safely
in bed and in a nurse's hands, and would then avoid her as much as
po