n, the sky showing signs of clearing, Lyon
Berners went over to Portsmouth to hear at what precise time the
Enterprise would sail for Liverpool. When he returned he had good news
for Sybil.

"The Ship will sail on Saturday! That is the day after to-morrow, dear
Sybil. And we may go on board to-morrow night."

"Oh! I am so glad!" exclaimed Sybil, clapping her hands for joy. And she
began to pack up immediately.

"Moreover, I have sold my wagon and horses to a party at Portsmouth. And
so we can put our luggage into it and drive off as if we were going
home; but we can go down to the river instead, and take it across in the
ferry-boat. Then I can have our effects put upon shipboard, and then
deliver the team to its purchaser and receive the price," added Lyon.

"Oh, but I am so delighted with the bare fact of our getting away so
soon, that all things else seem of no account to me!" joyously exclaimed
Sybil, going on with her packing.

The next morning Lyon went out alone to make a few more purchases for
their voyage. While he was going around, he also bought all the daily
papers that he could get hold of. He returned to Sybil at an early hour
of the forenoon. He found her sitting down in idleness.

"Got entirely through packing, my darling?" he inquired cheerfully.

"Oh, yes, and I have nothing on earth to do now. How long this last day
will seem! At what hour may we go on board, this evening?"

"At sundown."

"Oh, that it were now sundown! How shall we contrive to pass the time
until then?"

"This will help us to pass the day, dear wife," he answered, laying the
pile of newspapers on the table between them.

Each took up a paper and began to look over it.

Lyon was deep in a political article, when a cry from Sybil startled
him.

"What is the matter?" he inquired, in alarm.

She did not answer. Her face was pale as ashes, and her eyes were
strained upon the paper.

"What do you see there?" again inquired her husband.

"Oh, Lyon! Lyon! we are lost! we are lost!" she cried in a voice of
agony.

In great anxiety he took the paper from her hand, and read the paragraph
to which she pointed. It ran thus:

"It is now certain that Sybil Berners, accused of the murder of Rosa
Blondelle, is not in Annapolis, as was falsely reported; but that she
has escaped in disguise, accompanied by her husband, who is also in
disguise; and that both are in the city of Norfolk."

Now it was Lyon's turn to grow pallid with