And Jim, conscious of an awful blunder, obeying to the letter, as Thrall fainted, tore away the heavy portière that had helped so much to deaden the sound of the shot, dashed open the door, and, like a madman, shouted: "A doctor! a doctor! for God's sake, Barney! I've shot Thrall! I have! I have! Oh, run! run! I'll call a policeman myself!" He was obeying orders--he was making "a big row," but suddenly he thought of Sybil. "Oh, my beautiful!" he cried; "I meant to serve you, and I've robbed you instead!" And, as the policeman advanced toward him, he fell forward in the fit that had threatened him all the day. Yes, Jim was obedient to the last--he made "a big row"! The next day, almost at the same hour, the pale woman who had watched at Thrall's side almost unwinkingly left the room for a moment to confer with her maid. "English crêpe," she whispered, "of course. The heaviest and best is always the cheapest in the long run." It was only a moment's absence, but the long lashes on the stricken man's ghastly face lifted, the hand went to the wounded breast. With the instinct of the actor, who always considers effect, he thought gratefully that the hemorrhage had been internal, and that he had not been an offensive-looking object. He turned his eyes to the side where Lettice had sat and watched. She was not there. His eyes widened with pleasure. He rose suddenly--the effort was a mistaken one. He realized it in a moment. There was a red spot creeping out on his shirt, and--and a salty taste in his mouth. Yet he smiled, almost maliciously, as he thought: "I am escaping her, after all!" Then he knew. He shivered. "Sybil!" he said; "beloved!" The door opened--the clock was striking down-stairs--from a near room came the whir of a sewing-machine--Stewart Thrall was dead. CHAPTER XXVIII "THOU KNOWEST!" Mrs. Van Camp put ease and comfort from her, placed Poll in his cage, and left a bunch of white grapes dangling from its top, hoping that the fruit might attract his attention sufficiently to stop his hoarse: "'Omeo! 'Omeo! dead! dead!" that now was more distressing to listen to than his most distinct profanity. She had dressed herself for the street, and in her character of god-mother hastened to Sybil's side. Then, finding her prostrated, and, for the time being, utterly incapable of action of any kind, like the loyal friend she was, she went on up to Riverdale at once to the assistance of John Lawton and Leslie Galt; who, dazed and confused, seemed as helpless as two male babes, until the bright, clever, capable old lady took charge and gave orders and made suggestions.