It was an awful tableau; the last act of a terrible game that had for its stakes riches, or the grave. Boris, with livid face, was resting his right hand against the wall, while he pressed his left to his breast as if to stay the beating of his heart. He watched the dying struggles of his wife's murderer, seeming fascinated by the frightful spectacle. There was an awful silence. Amid this terrible scene Vera regained consciousness. Struggling to her feet she walked with uneven steps towards us. All at once her face assumed a look of inexpressible horror, as she gazed down upon the body of the murderer, and gradually realised the truth. "It is he! And he tried to kill me! It all seems like some horrible dream," she gasped, clutching my arm and uttering a low cry of horror. "Come; Vera," I whispered, softly, "the mystery is solved. The guilty one has received the wages of his sin." She did not reply, but, with a deep-drawn sigh, as if a great weight had been lifted from her mind, she leaned heavily upon my arm and left the chamber of death. Boris followed. His thirst for vengeance had been satisfied. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. CONCLUSION. A sultry autumn day had passed; the freshening twilight had faded, and the moon and evening star were in the sky as Vera and I sat together on the terrace at Elveham. Already the lights of the village began to twinkle in the distance; the tops of the trees in the Dene were gleaming in the moonlight like a silver sea, a night bird warbled sweetly, and the little brook babbled on with lulling music. My heart drank in the tranquillity of the scene, as in the listlessness of after dinner I smoked the sleep-inviting cigar. A month had elapsed since the tragic _denouement_ of the strange drama, but Vera's nerves had been so unstrung that I had scarcely referred to the terrible occurrence since. We had just dined with Boris and Bob Nugent, who had arrived as our guests that day. During the meal Vera had spoken of the scene at the hotel--not without some hesitation, however--and now we were alone she again alluded to it. "Do you remember, Frank, it was on a similar night to this, that you saw, over there in the Dene, what your jealous eyes distorted into a meeting of lovers?" "Yes, dearest; I do remember it. Boris being the man I saw leave the house in Bedford Place, I believed him to be the murderer," I replied. "Boris; the murderer!" cried my wife in surprise. "Ah! I understand, dear, what agony of mind such a discovery must have caused you. It was all my fault--everything," she added, with regret. "The mystification was not intentional, Vera," I said, tenderly, encircling her slim waist with my arm. "But do not let us speak of it again." "Frank," she exclaimed suddenly, as she placed her hand upon my shoulder tenderly, looking into my eyes, "Boris has yet something to tell you. Ah! here they come; you must hear it now."