But, frankly, none of these hypotheses appear to me to be tenable; the mystery does not lie so plainly on the surface. Moreover, I believe that the heart of the Terror continues to beat in this very place, the library of "Hildebrand Hundred," where I am sitting. Something is in this room, something that is eternally menacing and eternally patient. It may be in one year and it may be in three and fifty years that it chooses to strike, but strike it surely will and no art or cunning will avail to avert the blow. Yes, there is _something_ here, the _something_ for which I myself am waiting. But search as you will, you shall not find the Terror; you must await its coming as I am doing. Fielding Thaneford has gone to his own place, but his works of darkness remain behind him. There is just one more thing that I might tell you, but I shall not do it--you would then seek to compromise the situation, and that I will not have. I put my own wits to work and so was able to lift one corner of the veil; that is why I wait so confidently to-day for that which will surely come. And so I leave you but the one door to safety--the abandonment of the "Hundred" to John Thaneford, the same "Black Jack" Thaneford who once loved me and who finally cast me off. This is the last thing I can do for him--for him whom I both hate and love to the death. Why? Ask any woman---- The MS. had ended as abruptly as it had begun. I took the sheets from Betty's hand, arranged them in order, and put the bundle in my pocket. "I don't think we had better discuss this any further to-night," I said decisively. "Quite right," assented Warriner. "Betty looks pretty white, and you have been traveling for two days. Let me know, at any time, if I can be of service." We both of us accompanied Warriner to the porch, and saw him drive away. As we re-entered the hall the closed door of the library shone white and ghostly at the end of the passage. "That horrible room!" panted Betty, her hand tight clutched on my arm. "I can never, never enter it again." I tried to soothe her as best I could, but the poor girl's nerves had been badly overstrained, and it was a long time before I could get the upper hand of her hysterical mood. I positively refused to say one more word on the general subject of the tragedy, or the particular contents of Eunice Trevor's _ante mortem_ statement; and, after a while, Betty gave in and was reasonable again. But both of us knew that the question had not been settled, that it was only postponed. And to-morrow it would return again to plague us. Chapter XVI _Ad Interim_