The spring months passed slowly. Lady Wynde wrote by every post to her husband, and received letters as frequently. George’s minutest symptoms were described to her by the anxious father, and George himself, looking at his step-mother through his father’s eyes, sent her loving and pathetic messages, to which she duly responded. Thus the time wore on until the midsummer. About the middle of July, Lady Wynde received a black-bordered letter from her husband stating that his son and heir was dead. He had died at his up-country bungalow, after an illness which had been protracted considerably beyond the anticipations of his surgeon. Sir Harold wrote that he was exhausted by long nursing, and that he should remain a fortnight longer at his son’s bungalow to recruit his own health, and that he should then start for home. “I wish he would come,” said Lady Wynde discontentedly, to her gray companion. “I am tired of this dull existence. I am anxious to rid myself of the trammels of my present marriage, and to be free to marry again.” “You can be free within a week after Sir Harold’s return,” said Artress. “And he will be here in September.” “I shall be free in September,” mused Lady Wynde, with sparkling eyes. “A widow with four thousand a year! Ah, if only some good demon would bring about that happy fact, leaving _my_ hands unstained with crime?” It seemed as if her familiar demon had anticipated her prayer. Some two weeks later, a second black-bordered letter was brought to Lady Wynde. It was in an unfamiliar handwriting, and proved to be from Surgeon Graham. It announced the death of Sir Harold Wynde! The surgeon stated that the baronet had made all arrangements for returning to England, and that he had gone for a last ride among the hills. He had taken a jungle path, but being well armed and attended by a Hindoo servant, had anticipated no trouble. Some hours after he had set out on his ride, about the time the surgeon looked for his return, the Hindoo servant, covered with dust, rode up alone in a very panic of terror. With difficulty he told his story. Sir Harold Wynde had been attacked by a tiger that had leaped upon him from the jungle, and before his terrified servant could come to his aid, he had been dragged from his saddle, with the life-blood welling from his torn throat and breast. The servant, appalled, had not dared to fire, knowing that no human power could help Sir Harold in his extremity, and the baronet had been killed before his eyes. The Hindoo had then fled homeward to tell the awful story. The surgeon added, that a party had been made up to visit the scene of the tragedy. A pool of blood, fragments of Sir Harold’s garments, the bones of his horse, and the foot-prints of a tiger, all tended to the confirmation of the Hindoo’s story. A hunt was organized for the tiger, and he was found near the same spot on the following day and killed.