by me, Ptahmes, hold my coat!" Three sharp raps followed on the panels. A voice that thrilled me, asked within the room, "Who is there?" A voice, the cleverly twisted voice of Belleville, answered in a sharp falsetto from without, "It is I, my dear young lady, Sir Philip Lang." The door was immediately opened and I saw the sad face of my sweetheart. "Sir Philip!" she cried--then, seeing no one, she stopped, dismayed. Of a sudden she uttered a shriek and fell back into the room, back, back, clasping her hands to her neck and struggling to cry out. I guessed the reason instantly--Belleville had seized her by the throat. I sprang to her assistance, but paused again--by a miracle, in time--just across the threshold. Miss Ottley--I shall not, cannot call her Mrs. Belleville, though, indeed, she was--went spinning across the room, free, I saw. I slipped along the wall beside the lintel and waited, holding breath. What next? The door slammed and the bolt shot in answer to my question. Then came a long silence. Miss Ottley stood beside the farthest wall, supporting herself on the back of a saddle-bag chair, a picture of horror and fear personified. I would have given all the world for liberty to soothe her fears, to take her in my arms and comfort her. But it was not to be. Everything depended on my cunning and my silence. Tearing my glances from her ashen face, I looked around the room. It was her bedroom. The bed occupied one corner. Beside the canopy was an open window through which the light streamed in, striking full upon the door. Against another wall stood a Duchesse toilet table and a huge bemirrored clothes chest of carven ivory and ebony. The floor was covered with a thick pile carpet of dark crimson hue. The window curtains were of purple velvet. The bed's canopy of crimson silk. The walls were painted black and gold. It was, indeed, a mourning chamber. "Who is it--who is it?" gasped the white-faced, black-robed mourner. I glanced at her again and saw that one hand was pressed tightly to her side.