“Oh, you needn’t think of him!” she said scornfully. “He was across the way, waiting to see Florrie Bernstein, the dancer. She was out, and to amuse himself the devil put it in his head to stare out the window. He never had anything to do with the matter.” The strangely found beetle was on the girl’s lips, but the sleep was off her brain now, and she dared not trust her secret to her mother’s careless keeping. “I wish he had done it. I should like him to be hanged,” she muttered. “He’s too clever,” bitterly, “to do anything but bully women.” “Where is he now?” with late caution. “He and Cristiane have gone out skating,” she said carelessly, for Marcus had assured her the night before that the time was not ripe yet for any action. “They’re all right, you little idiot. There’s no need for you to look like that.” Wild, dazed, swaying, Ismay was on her feet. All right, with that black place in the ice, with that purpose in Wray’s mind! “Get out of my way! Move!” she cried. “Get me some water, brandy, anything! I can’t stand.” Mrs. Trelane was in the dining-room and back almost before she knew at the authority in the sharply breathed words. “What’s the matter? Are you going to be ill?” she cried. Ismay snatched the brandy and water. “Ill? No! If I am we’re ruined.” With quick, swaying steps she passed her mother, letting the empty glass fall in shivers to the floor. “Then you’re crazy!” cried the mother. She stared stupidly at the splinters, and by the time she had shrugged her shoulders amazedly Ismay was gone. Out the great door, hatless, into the winter air, that struck cold on her forehead and drove away the deadly faintness on her. Down the broad avenue toward the lake, staggering at first. Then, as her strength revived, running like young Diana, the beat of her flying feet only a little heavier than usual as she tore along. Marcus and Cristiane--the wolf and the lamb! That black place in the ice where the current came from a spring. And this awful stiffness that cramped her like a vise as she ran. Could she ever get there? She could see the lake now as she mounted the last rise in the avenue. And there was Marcus on the safe ice, and Cristiane? On the other side of the black streak Cristiane was sliding, without skates, drawing every minute nearer to it. Ismay knew now what was in his brain. All alone out there, there was no one to hear him dare her to cross it, and that was what he was doing. And Cristiane was heavy; it would never bear her. To slip into that running water meant death. The thought seemed to paralyze the girl who looked on. Helpless, rigid, great drops on her forehead for all the cold, she stood in full view of Cristiane, who waved her hand at her; in full view of some one else, long before his time at that tryst behind the cedars, as Cristiane, step by step, drew closer to that thin film of ice.