ear her bed and pressed it with
her finger. They heard the bell ring upstairs and had an impression
that its shrill sound must also reach any one below.

They waited. The silence became terrifying and the very breeze no
longer shook the leaves of the shrubs.

"I'm frightened--frightened," said Suzanne.

And, suddenly, from the profound darkness below them, came the sound of
a struggle, a crash of furniture overturned, words, exclamations and
then, horrible and ominous, a hoarse groan, the gurgle of a man who is
being murdered--

Raymonde leapt toward the door. Suzanne clung desperately to her arm:

"No--no--don't leave me--I'm frightened--"

Raymonde pushed her aside and darted down the corridor, followed by
Suzanne, who staggered from wall to wall, screaming as she went.
Raymonde reached the staircase, flew down the stairs, flung herself
upon the door of the big drawing room and stopped short, rooted to the
threshold, while Suzanne sank in a heap by her side. Facing them, at
three steps' distance, stood a man, with a lantern in his hand. He
turned it upon the two girls, blinding them with the light, stared long
at their pale faces, and then, without hurrying, with the calmest
movements in the world, took his cap, picked up a scrap of paper and
two bits of straw, removed some footmarks from the carpet, went to the
balcony, turned to the girls, made them a deep bow and disappeared.

Suzanne was the first to run to the little boudoir which separated the
big drawing-room from her father's bedroom. But, at the entrance, a
hideous sight appalled her. By the slanting rays of the moon, she saw
two apparently lifeless bodies lying close to each other on the floor.
She leaned over one of them:

"Father!--Father!--Is it you? What has happened to you?" she cried,
distractedly.

After a moment, the Comte de Gesvres moved. In a broken voice, he said:

"Don't be afraid--I am not wounded--Daval?--Is he alive?--The
knife?--The knife?--"

Two men-servants now arrived with candles. Raymonde flung herself down
before the other body and recognized Jean Daval, the count's private
secretary. A little stream of blood trickled from his neck. His face
already wore the pallor of death.

Then she rose, returned to the drawing room, took a gun that hung in a
trophy of arms on the wall and went out on the balcony. Not more than
fifty or sixty seconds had elapsed since the man had set his foot on
the top rung of the ladder. He could n