Like a caged panther she looked round the room for a means of exit, for, mad with rage as she was, she yet retained sufficient sense to know that a scene at the "Chequers" would be detrimental to her plans. "I must go! I must go!" Her eye caught the window, and like a flash of lightning she sprang towards it, tore it open, and bounded through into the darkness like a panther, uttering a laugh of triumph as she vanished. Ferrari darted forward, but stopped half-way across the room in amazement. "Dio! what a devil. I must go, or she will kill him." He put on his hat and coat rapidly, and, closing the window, left the inn by the door. "My friend," he said to the landlord, "I go for a little walk. Addio!" Luckily none of the labourers outside had seen Mrs. Belswin leave, as she had slipped past them in the shadow, and the road to Thornstream being perfectly deserted, she was free from discovery. Ferrari had explored the neighbourhood that afternoon, so, knowing the way to Thornstream, walked slowly along the road until out of sight of the inn, then ran rapidly onward through the darkness, longing to catch a glimpse of the flying woman speeding towards Thornstream with murder in her heart. CHAPTER XX. A MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR. "Stark and stiff in the lonely night, Stiff and stark in the dawning light, There it lies With unseeing eyes, And placid face of a bloodless white. "Who hath slain this man by guilt and fraud Bears on his brow, deep-seared and broad, The blood-red stain Which is mark of Cain, Unseen by man but beheld by God." The red light of dawn burned in the eastern skies, the first faint thrill of life ran through the earth as the twitter of awakening birds was heard in the green woods, then the glorious sun sent his beams over the chill lands, bathing everything in golden splendour. Thornstream Hall faced to the east, and the great shafts of sunlight breaking through misty morning clouds, pointed downward like the finger of God on to the terrace--to the open window of Sir Rupert's study, and there in the splendour of sunrise lay a dead man. Face downward he lay, with half of his body in the room, the other half on the terrace, and the hands stretched out in the form of a cross, clenched in the agony of death. Last night--this morning--nay, but a few hours back, and this was a living, breathing man, full of all the passions, sins, and hatred of humanity; now an empty shell, a soulless husk, was all that remained of Sir Rupert Pethram. Then the servants began to move about the house attending to their morning duties, and one--it was the housemaid--entered the study to put it in order. There she saw the dead man, and with a terrible cry fell senseless to the ground. Her cry brought in her fellow-servants, there were expressions of incredulous wonder, exclamations of horror, and then a general hubbub of voices.