“By God—a woman!” gasped Lord Verrian. Young Mr. Prescott sank down into the nearest chair, head between twitching hands; Captain Armitage sprang to bar the door, but, as he did so, it swung open and a girl smiled in upon them—a tall, handsome creature, black-eyed, full-lipped, dominant in her beauty. “Lord, gentlemen!” she exclaimed, glancing swiftly from one face to another; “I protest y’are very gloomily mum—as I were a ghost. Nay—what is it? Are you all dumb? Where is Charles?... He was to meet me here! You, my Lord Verrian ... Captain Armitage—where is Charles?” Lord Verrian turned his back, mumbling incoherencies; Mr. Prescott groaned. And then her quick glance had caught the glitter of the swords upon the table. “Charles!” she cried suddenly. “Charles! Ah—my God!” Captain Armitage made a feeble effort to stay her, but, brushing him imperiously aside, she fled into the inner room. Ensued a moment of tense and painful stillness, and then upon the air rose a dreadful strangled screaming, and she was back, the awful sound still issuing from her quivering lips. “Who ... who,” she gasped at last, “which of you ... which of you ... did it?” No one spoke, only Sir John Dering bowed, laced handkerchief to lip. “You—ah, ’twas you?” she questioned in hoarse whisper. “I ... do not know you.... Your name, sir?” “I am called John Dering, madam.” “Dering,” she repeated in the same tense voice—“John Dering—I shall not forget! And ’twas you killed him—’twas you murdered my Charles—you—you?” And now she broke out into a wild farrago of words, bitter reproaches and passionate threats, while Sir John stood immobile, head bowed, laced handkerchief to lip, mute beneath the lash of her tongue. Softly, stealthily, one by one, the others crept from the room until the twain were alone, unseen, unheard, save by one beyond the open casement who stood so patiently in the gathering dusk, watching Sir John’s drooping figure with such keen anxiety. “... God curse you!” she panted hoarsely. “God’s curse on you for the murderer you are! Aye, but you shall suffer for it, I swear! You shall rue this night’s work to the end of your life——” The passionate voice broke upon a gasping sob, and then Sir John spoke, his head still bowed: “True, madam, I shall ... suffer and grieve for this ... to the end o’ my days for ... Charles was ... my friend——” “And you are his murderer, John Dering—so am I your enemy!” she cried. “Your sin may be soon forgot—the world may forgive you—even God may, but I—never will! My vengeance shall follow you, to end only with your last breath——” Sir John coughed suddenly, the handkerchief at his mouth became all at once horribly crimson, and, sinking to his knees, he swayed over sideways; lying thus, it chanced that the long, embroidered waistcoat he had so vainly sought to button, fell open, discovering the great and awful stains below.