ched it from
the shelf and thrust it into my hair."

He stared at her in amazement, her confession and her attitude so
completely contradicted each other.

"But I had nothing to do with the vial," she went on. And with this
declaration her whole manner, even her voice changed, as if with the
utterance of these few words she had satisfied some inner demand of
self-respect, and could now enter into the sufferings of those about
her. "This I think it right to make plain to you. I supposed the vial to
be in the box when I took it, but when I got to my room and had an
opportunity to examine the deadly trinket, I found it empty, just as you
found it when you took it from my hair. Some one had taken the vial out
before my hand had ever touched the box."

Like a man who feels himself suddenly seized by the throat, yet who
struggles for the life slowly but inexorably leaving him, Sinclair cast
one heart-rending look toward the conservatory, then heavily demanded:

"Why were you out of your room? Why did they have to look for you? _And
who was the person who uttered that scream?_"

She confronted him sadly, but with an earnestness he could not but
respect.

"I was not in the room because I was troubled by my discovery. I think I
had some idea of returning the box to the shelf from which I had taken
it. At all events, I found myself on the little staircase in the rear
when that cry rang through the house. I do not know who uttered it; I
only know that it did not spring from my lips."

In a rush of renewed hope he seized her by the hand.

"It was your aunt!" he whispered. "It was she who took the vial out of
the box; who put it to her own lips; who shrieked when she felt her
vitals gripped. Had you stayed you would have known this. Can't you say
so? Don't you think so? Why do you look at me with those incredulous
eyes?"

"Because you must not believe a lie. Because you are too good a man to
be sacrificed. It was a younger throat than my aunt's which gave
utterance to that shriek. Mr. Sinclair, be advised; _do not be married
to-morrow_!"

Meanwhile I was pacing the hall without in a delirium of suspense. I
tried hard to keep within the bounds of silence. I had turned for the
fiftieth time to face that library door, when suddenly I heard a hoarse
cry break from within, and saw the door fly open and Dorothy come
hurrying out. She shrank when she saw me, but seemed grateful that I
did not attempt to stop her, and soon was