over her hand, and then preceded her to the portiere,
which he drew aside that she might pass.

"Good-night, Mrs. Raritan," he said; "good-night, and pleasant dreams."

Then he turned to the girl. She, too, looked older, or, perhaps, it
would be more exact to say she looked more mature. Something of the
early fragrance had left her face, but she was as beautiful as before.

Her gold eyes were brilliant as high noon, and her cheeks bore an
unwonted color. She was dressed in white, her girdle was red with roses,
and her arms and neck were bare.

As Mrs. Raritan passed from the room, Tristrem let the portiere fall
again, and stood a moment feasting his famished eyes in hers. At last he
spoke.

"_He_ is dead, Viola."

The words came from him very gravely, and when he had uttered them he
looked down at the rug.

"Dead! Who is dead? What do you mean?"

"He is dead," he repeated, but still he kept his eyes lowered.

"He! What he? What are you talking about?" She had left her seat and
fronted him.

"Royal Weldon," he made answer, and as he did so he looked up at her.

Her hands fluttered like falling leaves. An increased color mounted to
her cheeks, and disappearing, left them white. Her lips trembled.

"I do not understand," she gasped. And then, as her dilated eyes stared
into his own, he saw that she understood at last. Her fluttering hands
had gone to her throat, as though to tear away some invisible clutch.
Her lips had grown gray. She was livid.

"It is better so, is it not?" he asked, and searched her face for some
trace of the symptoms of joy. As he gazed at her, she retreated. Her
hands had left her throat, her forehead was pinioned in their grasp, and
in her eyes the expression of terrified wonder was seamed and obscured
by another that resembled hate.

"And it was you," she stammered, "it was you?"

"Yes," he answered, with an air of wonder that equalled her own;
"yes----"

"You tell me that Royal Weldon is dead, and that you--that you----"

"It was this way," he began, impelled, in his own surprise, to some form
of explanation. "It was this way--you see--well, I went to Riva. That
man that brought back your hat----Good God, Viola, are you not glad?"

She had fallen into a chair, and he was at her feet.

"Are you not glad?" he insisted. "Now, it will be----" But whatever he
intended to say, the speech remained uncompleted. The girl had drawn
from him as from an adder unfanged.

"Assassin!" sh