ure again. I stared at
the glimmering amethyst, I stared at the empty vial, and, as a full
realisation of all his words implied seized my benumbed faculties, I
felt the icy chill of some grisly horror moving among the roots of my
hair, lifting it on my forehead and filling my whole being with
shrinking and dismay.

Sinclair, with a quick movement, replaced the tiny flask in its old
receptacle, and then, thrusting the whole out of sight, seized my hand
and wrung it.

"I am your friend," he whispered. "Remember, under all circumstances and
in every exigency, your friend."

"What are you going to do with _those_?" I demanded, when I regained
control of my speech.

"I do not know."

"What are you going to do with--with Dorothy?"

He drooped his head; I could see his fingers working in the moonlight.

"The physicians will soon be here. I heard the telephone going a few
minutes ago. When they have pronounced the old woman dead we will give
the--the lady you mention an opportunity to explain herself."

Explain herself, she! Simple expectation. Unconsciously I shook my head.

"It is the least we can do," he gently persisted. "Come, we must not be
seen with our heads together--not yet. I am sorry that we two were found
more or less dressed at the time of the alarm. It may cause comment."

"She was dressed, too," I murmured, as much to myself as to him.

"Unfortunately, yes," was the muttered reply, with which he drew off and
hastened into the hall, where the now thoroughly-aroused household stood
in a great group about the excited hostess.

Mrs. Armstrong was not the woman for an emergency. With streaming hair
and tightly-clutched kimono, she was gesticulating wildly and bemoaning
the break in the festivities which this event must necessarily cause. As
Sinclair approached, she turned her tirade on him, and as all stood
still to listen and add such words of sympathy or disappointment as
suggested themselves in the excitement of the moment, I had an
opportunity to note that neither of the two girls most interested was
within sight. This troubled me. Drawing up to the outside of the circle,
I asked Beaton, who was nearest to me, if he knew how Miss Camerden was.

"Better, I hear. Poor girl! it was a great shock to her."

I ventured nothing more. The conventionality of his tone was not to be
mistaken. Our conversation on the veranda was to be ignored. I did not
know whether to feel relief at this or an added distress