Dainty water-colour pictures in slender gilt frames lightened the sombre tints of the walls, and between these were highly polished steel battle-axes, old-fashioned guns, delicate but deadly pistols of modern workmanship, and dangerous-looking swords, all arranged in symmetrical patterns. The floor of polished oak was covered with buffalo skins from American prairies, opossum rugs from Australian plains, striped tiger-skins from Indian jungles, and white bear-skins from the cold north; while in the centre of the room stood the desk, piled with books and loose papers. The whole room had a workmanlike appearance and an air of literary comfort eminently attractive to a bookish man. On this night the two French windows were wide open, and into the room floated the rich perfumes of the flowers, broken by the pungent smell of a cigar which Sir Rupert was smoking as he sat writing at his desk. At his feet on either side were heavy books, carelessly thrown down after use, and scattered sheets of paper, while amid the confused mass on the desk itself was the red blotting-pad and the white note-paper on which he was writing. There was a lamp on his left, from beneath the green shade of which welled a flood of heavy yellow light--so heavy that it seemed to rest sluggishly on the floor and be unable to rise to the ceiling, where the shade made a dark circle. Within--the yellow lighted room, the silent man writing rapidly, the steady ticking of the clock, and the acrid tobacco scent. Without--the close night, moonless and starless, the air drowsy with heat, the faint flower-odours, and the sombre masses of the trees sleeping dully under the soporific influence of the atmosphere. There was something weird in the uncanny stillness of the night, a kind of premonition of coming woe, which would have certainly affected the nerves of a highly-strung man; but Sir Rupert did not believe in nerves, and wrote on carelessly without giving a thought to the strange prophetic feeling in the air. If he had only known he would have fallen on his knees and prayed for the protection of his guardian angel until the red dawn broke through the dread shadows of the fatal night. The rapid scratching of the pen, the sharp peremptory tick of the clock, and suddenly a distinct knock at the door. Sir Rupert raised his head with an expectant look on his face. "Come in!" A woman entered, tall and stately, arrayed in sombre garments; she entered slowly, with a faltering step, and paused in the shadow before the desk. Sir Rupert, his eyes dazzled by the glare of the lamp, could see her face but indistinctly in the semi-twilight, and only heard her short hurried breathing, which betokened great agitation. "Mrs. Belswin, is it not?" The woman placed one hand on her throat, as if striving to keep down an attack of hysteria, and answered in a low, choked voice-- "Yes!" "I beg your pardon, I did not hear what you said, madam." "I--I am Mrs. Belswin."