hand
loosen a little on the slender stiletto he held close against the bottom
of the tray. But such resolution does not easily yield, and his fingers
soon tightened again, this time with a deadly grip.

He had expected to meet the flash of the diamond as he bent over her,
and dreaded doing so for fear it would attract his eye from her face and
so cost him the sight of that startled recognition which would give the
desired point to his revenge. But the tray, as he held it, shielded her
breast from view, and when he lowered it to strike his blow, he thought
of nothing but aiming so truly as to need no second blow. He had had
his experience in those old years in a mining camp, and he did not
fear failure in this. What he did fear was her utterance of some
cry,--possibly his name. But she was stunned with horror, and did not
shriek,--horror of him whose eyes she met with her glassy and staring
ones as he slowly drew forth the weapon.

Why he drew it forth instead of leaving it in her breast he could not
say. Possibly because it gave him his moment of gloating revenge. When
in another instant, her hands flew up, and the tray tipped, and the
china fell, the revulsion came, and his eyes opened to two facts: the
instrument of death was still in his grasp, and the diamond, on whose
possession he counted, was gone from his wife's breast.

It was a horrible moment. Voices could be heard approaching the
alcove,--laughing voices that in an instant would take on the note of
horror. And the music,--ah! how low it had sunk, as if to give place to
the dying murmur he now heard issuing from her lips. But he was a man of
iron. Thrusting the stiletto into the first place that offered, he drew
the curtains over the staring windows, then slid out with his tray,
calm, speckless and attentive as ever, dead to thought, dead to feeling,
but aware, quite aware in the secret depths of his being that something
besides his wife had been killed that night, and that sleep and peace of
mind and all pleasure in the past were gone for ever.

It was not he I saw enter the alcove and come out with news of the
crime. He left this role to one whose antecedents could better bear
investigation. His part was to play, with just the proper display of
horror and curiosity, the ordinary menial brought face to face with a
crime in high life. He could do this. He could even sustain his share
in the gossip, and for this purpose kept near the other waiters. The
abs