nd the
chambermaid on the other, were standing looking at her. From time to
time, she drew a heavy stertorous breath, like a person oppressed in
sleeping. 'Is she likely to die?' Henry asked.

'She is dead,' the doctor answered. 'Dead of the rupture of a
blood-vessel on the brain. Those sounds that you hear are purely
mechanical--they may go on for hours.'

Henry looked at the chambermaid. She had little to tell. The Countess
had refused to go to bed, and had placed herself at her desk to proceed
with her writing. Finding it useless to remonstrate with her, the maid
had left the room to speak to the manager. In the shortest possible
time, the doctor was summoned to the hotel, and found the Countess dead
on the floor. There was this to tell--and no more.

Looking at the writing-table as he went out, Henry saw the sheet of
paper on which the Countess had traced her last lines of writing. The
characters were almost illegible. Henry could just distinguish the
words, 'First Act,' and 'Persons of the Drama.' The lost wretch had
been thinking of her Play to the last, and had begun it all over again!

CHAPTER XXVII

Henry returned to his room.

His first impulse was to throw aside the manuscript, and never to look
at it again. The one chance of relieving his mind from the dreadful
uncertainty that oppressed it, by obtaining positive evidence of the
truth, was a chance annihilated by the Countess's death. What good
purpose could be served, what relief could he anticipate, if he read
more?

He walked up and down the room. After an interval, his thoughts took a
new direction; the question of the manuscript presented itself under
another point of view. Thus far, his reading had only informed him
that the conspiracy had been planned. How did he know that the plan
had been put in execution?

The manuscript lay just before him on the floor. He hesitated; then
picked it up; and, returning to the table, read on as follows, from the
point at which he had left off.

'While the Countess is still absorbed in the bold yet simple
combination of circumstances which she has discovered, the Baron
returns. He takes a serious view of the case of the Courier; it may be
necessary, he thinks, to send for medical advice. No servant is left
in the palace, now the English maid has taken her departure. The Baron
himself must fetch the doctor, if the doctor is really needed.

'"Let us have medical help, by all means," his sister