But at the thought her heart sank again. The owner of the lost scarab must be found first, and how was she to do it? CHAPTER XXV. THE GRATITUDE OF CRISTIANE. No day that held murder and sudden death in it ever dawned more fair to see than the next morning. The sun shone sweetly on the frozen world, the robins came confidently to the dining-room window, red-breasted, certain of crumbs; the lake shone as glittering glass; the cold, sweet air of morning was like wine to the nerves as Ismay, after breakfast, stood at the window feeding the hungry birds. She almost wondered at her own fear of Marcus Wray this morning. The look of latent savagery was all gone from his calm, clean-shaven face as he stood by the fire idly smoking a cigarette. And the strained, expectant horror was gone from her mother’s face. For some reason or other, the awful purpose of the day had been postponed. There was relief at Ismay’s heart as she read those faces. “We are a nice, harmonious, affectionate household for one more day. I suppose he has his reasons,” she thought. But she did not want to catch his eye. She stood with an indifferent shoulder to him as he moved toward the door. “What, Cristiane?” She started from her reverie as if she were shot. Cristiane was eying her like a kitten who has just scratched. “I only said you and Miles were very late last night,” she repeated viciously. Ismay could not speak. She made instead a quick step toward the door that had barely closed behind Wray. Was he out of hearing, or was he there still? “I--and Miles!” she said coldly. “What do you mean?” Mrs. Trelane, reading a letter, fairly dropped it as she stared at the two. What had Ismay been doing? Was the girl crazy? Cristiane laughed, like a child pleased with mischief. “Don’t look so angry,” she remarked. “I was only trying to pay you for--you know what!” with a nod in the direction of the departed Wray. “You two children!” said Mrs. Trelane, with an indulgent smile, that covered her relief that this was only play. But Ismay, facing Cristiane, was not so certain. There was a something in the baby face of the only child that she did not like. “She saw us! And if she tells Marcus I’m done,” she reflected. But Cristiane, as she purred an amiable apology, had no intention of telling Marcus. She meant to have Marcus and Miles both, and something warned even her that it would not be well to speak of Ismay to Wray. And Ismay, in spite of the exquisite day, was feeling strangely dull. A deadly lassitude was in all her limbs; the strain of constant, racking thought for the girl who was so spoiled, the mother who was so careless, was telling on her. She saw Wray go out, and Cristiane busy writing a note, to whom she did not care, and crept away to a dark corner of the hall where a screen hid her from passers-by. While things were quiet she must sleep, or she would break down. Had there been anything the matter with her coffee?