CHAPTER I. THE CONVENT PRELUDE. CHAPTER II. A FRIENDLESS FUGITIVE. CHAPTER III. THE WHEELS OF FATE. CHAPTER IV. THE LOVELY ANDRIA. CHAPTER V. HER EVIL GENIUS. CHAPTER VI. LORD ERCELDONNE MARKS THE KING. CHAPTER VII. FIRST BLOOD TO ERCELDONNE. CHAPTER VIII. A WOMAN’S DIARY. CHAPTER IX. ON BOARD THE YACHT. CHAPTER X. THE HOUSE BY THE SEA. CHAPTER XI. TWO WARNINGS. CHAPTER XII. THE HAUNTING EYES. CHAPTER XIII. THE PATTERING FOOTSTEPS. CHAPTER XIV. THE EYES OUTSIDE THE JALOUSY. CHAPTER XV. A STRANGE POWER. CHAPTER XVI. IN THE WOODS OF PARADISE. CHAPTER XVII. OLD SINS AWAKENED. CHAPTER XVIII. DOUBTING THOMAS. CHAPTER XIX. TRUSTED TOO LATE. CHAPTER XX. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. CHAPTER XXI. STRANGERS. CHAPTER XXII. BEHIND THE CYPRESS BOUGHS. CHAPTER XXIII. THE CRY IN THE STARLIGHT. CHAPTER XXIV. THE MADMAN. CHAPTER XXV. THE LAUGH IN THE DARK. CHAPTER XXVI. A SEALED PACKET. CHAPTER XXVII. THE HAND OF FATE. CHAPTER XXVIII. A MURDER IN THE DARK. CHAPTER XXIX. THE DEATH-TRAP. CHAPTER XXX. MOTHER FELICITAS. CHAPTER XXXI. HOPELESS AND HELPLESS. CHAPTER XXXII. AN OLD PHOTOGRAPH. CHAPTER XXXIII. A DREAM OF VENGEANCE. CHAPTER XXXIV. A LITTLE GOLD. CHAPTER XXXV. THE BEGINNING OF THE JUDGMENT. CHAPTER XXXVI. “A BOY!” CHAPTER XXXVII. THE DARK HOUSE. CHAPTER XXXVIII. DREAMS. CHAPTER XXXIX. TAKEN UNAWARES. CHAPTER XL. THE EXPIATION OF MOTHER FELICITAS. CHAPTER I. THE CONVENT PRELUDE. The summer holidays had begun and the great convent school was deserted, all its pupils gone but two, who were in the alcove belonging to the elder of them, and, as if that breakage of rule were not enough, were seated on the small white bed which was counted a crime to rumple. The elder girl was eighteen, and after to-day convent rules would concern her no more, for that very afternoon she was going out into “the world” to earn her own living as a governess. She was wild with excitement, and would have been enraptured with the foretaste of liberty had it not been for the child who clung to her, sick and exhausted with stormy crying. She looked down on her pityingly, and the reverend mother could have told you Andria Heathcote was not given to compassion. Her red-brown hair grew too strongly on her forehead for that; her full rose lips were too heavy. Yet something in the very strangeness of the girl who clutched her had caught at her hard young heart. For Beryl Corselas was only a child, and young for her years at that. It seemed to Andria that the sins of eleven years old were too seriously taken when they were considered crimes, and yet her goblin ways were enough to provoke a saint--or Sister Felicitas! “Beryl, look here,” repeated Andria; “don’t cry any more. I’ll write to you. I’m not going very far away.”