“Yes, he is dead,” answers a deep voice close by her elbow, “and you, my dear madam, are his---- Well, the word I would use is an ugly one, and I will substitute in its place--you are responsible for it.” “It is false!” Queenie tries to gasp as she reels backward in horror, too awful for words, and glares with dilated eyes at the intruder who has suddenly loomed up before her. But the words die away in her throat in a spasmodic, deathlike gurgle. Before her she sees standing the man with the bright, piercing eyes, whom she had believed to be the doctor’s assistant, and whom she fancied had left the house with him. His coat collar was still turned up, and his hat pulled down over his face, revealing only those black, malicious eyes. “You have not been alone, as you fancied yourself to be, madam,” he went on, in that voice which seemed strangely familiar to her. “I remained behind, to see that you carried out the doctor’s instructions, upon which the life of the man now lying dead before you hung. I seated myself in that armchair in the bay window, which the lace draperies conceal, but from my position I could see all that took place. In fact, being scarcely ten feet from you, I could not help overhearing every word that fell from your lips.” “No, no, no!” shrieked Queenie, falling on her knees at his feet. “Hush!” he commanded, quickly, placing his hand over her mouth, “don’t you know that you will arouse every servant in the house, and that they will be flocking to the scene? I have much to say to you ere the alarm that your husband is dead is given out. There, don’t be alarmed; I want to be your friend if you will allow me to be so. It is not my intention, at least not my present intention, to betray your crime to the world. You did a very rash thing, to be sure, but, then, I intend to be your friend for the reason that it is for my interest to be so.” “Who are you?” gasped Queenie, leaning heavily back against the casement. “I seem to know you--and yet I do not. My God!” she exclaimed in the same breath, “am I mad or dreaming, or do my eyes deceive me? You are Raymond Challoner!” CHAPTER XXXI. IN HIS POWER. “O’er her brow a change has passed; In the darkness of her eyes, Deep and still a mystery lies; In her voice there thrills a tone Never in her girlhood known.” For one full moment the two who had parted from each other in such bitter wrath on that never-to-be-forgotten morning at Newport stood once again, face to face, looking into each other’s eyes. It was Queenie who broke the dead silence that reigned in that awful chamber of death. “Raymond Challoner!” she repeated, falteringly, and he could see that she was almost on the verge of utter collapse. “Yes, Raymond Challoner, at your service,” he responded, cynically. “What are you doing here?” she cried, hoarsely, still wondering if she were not laboring under some horrible nightmare.