She now identified the distorted features of the madwoman as those of the young man, and when I questioned her with regard to the bloodstained handkerchief, she explained how, in groping about the shrubbery in the dark, she had torn her hand severely on some thorns. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The cloud of suspicion that had rested so long upon Mabel is now removed, and we are again happy. The carefully-devised plots and the devilish cunning that characterised all the murderess's movements appeared most extraordinary; nevertheless, in cases such as hers, they are not unheard of. Darya is now in Brookwood Asylum, hopelessly insane, for she is still suffering from that most terrible form of madness,--acute homicidal mania,--and is known to the attendants as "The Woman with a Blemish." CHAPTER SEVEN. THE SYLPH OF THE TERROR. "Ah! you in England, here, are always _debonnaire_, while we in Charleroi are always _triste_, always." The dark-eyed, handsome girl sighed, lying lazily back among the cushions of the boat, allowing the rudder-lines to hang so loosely that our course became somewhat erratic. I had been spending one of the hot afternoons of last July gossiping and drinking tea on the riverside lawn of a friend's house at Datchet, and now at sunset had taken for a row this pretty Belgian whom my hostess had introduced as Cecile Demage. "Is this your first visit to London?" I asked, noticing she spoke English fluently, but with a pleasing accent. "Oh no," she replied, laughing. "I have been here already two times. I like your country so very much." "And you come here for pleasure--just for a little holiday?" "Yes," she answered, lifting her long lashes for an instant. "Of course I travel for--for pleasure always." Fixing my eyes upon her steadily, I remained silent, pulling long, slow strokes. The evening was calm and delightful, but the blood-red after-glow no longer reflected on the placid Thames, for already the purple haze was gathering. "You know many Belgians in London, I suppose?" I said at last. "Oh dear, no!" she answered, with a rippling laugh, toying with one of her gloves that lay on the cushion beside her. "True, I know some of the people at our Legation; but I come abroad to visit the English, not the Belgians." "And you have never visited West Hill, Sydenham, mademoiselle?" I asked, resting upon the oars suddenly, and looking straight into her dark, wide-open eyes. She started, but next second recovered her self-possession. "No, not to my knowledge." "And have you never met Fedor Nikiforovitch; has he never addressed you by your proper name, Sonia Ostroff?" The colour left her face instantly, as she started up with a look of abject terror in her eyes. "M'sieur is of the Secret Police!" she gasped hoarsely, clenching her hands. "_Dieu_! Then I am betrayed!"