ardly and
slowly her gloved fingers moved across the page.

"I do not know," she wrote; and, with an oath, Wethermill snatched the
paper up, tore it into pieces, and threw it down.

"You have got to know," he said, his face purple with passion, and he
flung out his arm as though he would dash his fist into her face. But
as he stood with his arm poised there came a singular change upon his
face.

"Did you hear anything?" he asked in a whisper.

All listened, and all heard in the quiet of the night a faint click,
and after an interval they heard it again, and after another but
shorter interval yet once more.

"That's the gate," said Wethermill in a whisper of fear, and a pulse of
hope stirred within Celia.

He seized her wrists, crushed them together behind her, and swiftly
fastened them once more. Adele Rossignol sat down upon the floor, took
the girl's feet upon her lap, and quietly wrenched off her shoes.

"The light," cried Wethermill in an agonised voice, and Helena Vauquier
flew across the room and turned it off.

All three stood holding their breath, straining their ears in the dark
room. On the hard gravel of the drive outside footsteps became faintly
audible, and grew louder and came near. Adele whispered to Vauquier:

"Has the girl a lover?"

And Helene Vauquier, even at that moment, laughed quietly.

All Celia's heart and youth rose in revolt against her extremity. If
she could only free her lips! The footsteps came round the corner of
the house, they sounded on the drive outside the very window of this
room. One cry, and she would be saved. She tossed back her head and
tried to force the handkerchief out from between her teeth. But
Wethermill's hand covered her mouth and held it closed. The footsteps
stopped, a light shone for a moment outside. The very handle of the
door was tried. Within a few yards help was there--help and life. Just
a frail latticed wooden door stood between her and them. She tried to
rise to her feet. Adele Rossignol held her legs firmly. She was
powerless. She sat with one desperate hope that, whoever it was who was
in the garden, he would break in. Were it even another murderer, he
might have more pity than the callous brutes who held her now; he could
have no less. But the footsteps moved away. It was the withdrawal of
all hope. Celia heard Wethermill behind her draw a long breath of
relief. That seemed to Celia almost the cruellest part of the whole
tragedy. They waited