It was the letter Devereaux had written to acquaint Edmund Clarke with Liane's address--the fateful letter that was to betray the girl into the hands of her bitterest foe. Ah, the hellish gleam of wicked joy in the cruel red-brown eyes; the stormy heaving of Roma's breast as she realized her great good fortune; all her enemies in her power, at her mercy! The mercy the ravenous wolf shows to the helpless lamb! She laughed low and long in her glee, and that laughter was an awful thing to hear. "Oh, how can I wait till to-morrow?" she muttered. "Yet I cannot go to Boston to-night, nor to-morrow, if Edmund Clarke dies to-night. Shall I spare his life till I go to Boston, and have his daughter put out of the way?" CHAPTER XXIII. A MURDEROUS FURY. Hours slipped away while the beautiful fiend, so young in years, so old in the conception of crime, crouched in her seat, waiting, musing, pondering on the best schemes for ridding herself of those who stood in her way. She was eager as a wild beast to strike quickly and finish the awful work she had set herself to do. It seemed to her that she might never have another such opportunity for ending Edmund Clarke's life as was offered to her by the conditions of the present moment. It was most important to get rid of him, she knew, and the sooner the better for the safety of her position as heiress of the Clarke millions. Let him die first, and she could attend to the others afterward. At the dark, gloomy hour of midnight, while the icy winds wailed around the house like a banshee, Roma went groping through the pitch-black corridors toward the room where Mr. Clarke lay sleeping with his gentle, loving wife by his side. Like a sleek, beautiful panther the girl crept into the unlocked door, knowing the room so well that she could find her way to the bedside in the darkness, and put out her stealthy, murderous hand, with the bottle of poison in it, seeking for the glass that held the sleeping potion Doctor Jay had prescribed. Her heart beat with evil exultation, for it seemed to her that her errand could scarcely fail of success. Edmund Clarke was sound asleep, she knew by his deep breathing, and she decided that, after pouring the poison into the glass, she would make enough noise in escaping from the room to arouse him fully, so that he would be sure to swallow the second dose ere sleeping again. It was a clever plan, cleverly conceived, and in another moment it would be executed, and no earthly power could save the victim from untimely death. But in her haste Roma made one fatal mistake. In groping for the glass, she held the vial with the arsenic clasped in her hand. And she was very nervous, her white hands trembling as they fluttered over the little medicine stand by the head of the bed.