ly, she rose with sudden
impulse and, crossing the room, took up a box of matches. Striking one,
she applied it to the corners of the half cards and held the latter
until the blue flame crept upwards and consumed them.

Then she cast them from her into the grate.

It was the end of her romance with that man who had been struck that
cowardly blow in secret--Richard Harborne.

She stood gazing upon the tiny piece of tinder in the fender, immovable
as a statue. Her dark brows slowly narrowed, her white, even teeth were
set, her small hands clenched, as, beneath her breath, she uttered a
fierce vow--a hard, bitter vow of vengeance.

Before her arose the vision of her good-looking lover, the man with the
dark, intense eyes--Ralph Ansell. And then the memory of the dead Dick
Harborne instantly faded from her mind.

Her romance with Dick had been but a passing fancy. She had never really
loved him. Indeed, he had never spoken to her of love. Yet he had
fascinated her, and in his presence she had found herself impelled by
his charm and his easy-going cosmopolitanism, so that she had listened
to him and obeyed, even against her own will.

She recollected vividly that adventurous journey to Bremen--recalled it
all as some half-forgotten, misty dream. She could feel now the crisp
crackling of those Bank of England notes which she had carried secreted
in her cheap little dressing-case with its electro-plated fittings. She
remembered, too, the face of the stranger, the fat, sandy-haired German,
whom she had met by appointment upon a flat country road a mile distant
from the city towards Ottersberg--how he had given her, as credential,
one of those pieces of visiting-card, together with a bulky letter, and
how, in return, she had handed him the English bank-notes.

Then there was the mysterious packet she had subsequently given to Dick,
when she had met him one evening and dined with him at the Trocadero.
Then he had thanked her, and declared his great indebtedness.

From that night, until the day of the tragedy, she had not seen him.
Indeed, she had made up her mind never to do so. Yet he had persuaded
her to meet him at Mundesley, and she had consented, even though she
knew what risk of detection by Ralph she must run.

Was it possible that Ralph knew?

The thought held her breathless.

Ralph Ansell loved her. He had sworn many times that no other man should
love her. What if Dick's death had been due to Ralph's fierce