Theresa was watching for her lover, and the dark rings under her eyes told of the anxiety she had endured. The appearance of a stranger frightened her, and Sir Harold drew her aside, whispering: “Poor little girl! How thoughtless of me to leave you so long without one word of explanation. But I did not intend going so far, Theresa, and then, my old valet recognized me, and I have engaged him to go with us on our wedding tour. I can see that he is trustworthy, and he is half-frantic with joy. Is there room for him in this little nest? If not, we must find him lodgings somewhere until we go away.” “I think that we can manage, Harold,” Theresa said, happy tears standing in her eyes. “Oh, I was so frightened when I could not find you. I am always dreaming that I have lost you!” “There is not much fear of that, darling,” he said, laughingly, and pressing a kiss to her lips. By the time Mr. Hamilton returned from London a room had been put to rights for the valet, the resources of the cottage being taxed to their utmost. The visit to the metropolis had been successful in every way, and the evening was spent in writing a somewhat lengthy letter to Colonel Greyson, wherein Sir Harold’s arrangements for the immediate future were fully set forth. It was nearly midnight when Sir Harold retired, and he wished Hamilton an affectionate “Good-night!” saying, “You have overdone yourself to-day. Do not sit up too long.” “No, Harold; I have a few old papers to destroy. I shall not be many minutes.” The young man went up to his room, which was directly over the one in which he had left Mr. Hamilton. For a little while he heard the rustling of papers, then a sudden silence, followed by the opening of a door. Five--ten minutes passed, and there was not a sound. Slipping into his clothes again, Sir Harold stepped downstairs, and Mr. Hamilton was apparently asleep. The young man spoke to him, but there was no reply. Then he ran and shook him. The head dropped forward, and one glance revealed that he was dead--the hanging lower jaw, the glazing eyes, filled with unutterable horror, and the stiffening hands. “My God!” gasped Sir Harold. “Poor Theresa!” He lifted the poor old man to a sofa, and a scrap of paper dropped from the nerveless fingers, bearing these words: Tracked at last, Lambert Egerton, assassin of the Count Crispi, of blessed memory. It is useless to evade us longer. Your doom is sealed! Your life and the life of the child of the false Theresa Ludovci are demanded by the Brotherhood. Blood for blood! Prepare, for at any moment the avenger may be upon you! You are spared a little longer, so that you may understand the tortures of the doomed! The writing was a mere scrawl, and the spelling and grammar proclaimed the author to be an illiterate foreigner.