"Tea never does me no good, and going to bed only makes me worse. I suppose it's staying in-doors so much. I ain't used to it. I always take a walk every afternoon. I'll wait and see if it gets better. If it don't, I'll go and take a little walk along the shore. A mouthful of fresh air will do me good." Mrs. Sharpe waited accordingly, but the headache did not get better. On the contrary, it grew so much worse that when the one-o'clock dinner was ready, she was unable to eat a mouthful. She lay with her head on the table in a sort of stupor. "I think you had better take a walk," said Mrs. Oleander, who was not an ill-natured old woman on the whole. "I don't want you to be laid up on our hands." Mrs. Sharpe glanced at the clock; it wanted a quarter of two. She rose at once. "I think I must, or I'll be fit for nothing for a week. I'll go and put on my things." In five minutes, Susan Sharpe walked out of the garden gate and down to the shore. Old Peter closed the gate, watched her out of sight, and went back to the house, unsuspectingly. Mrs. Sharpe sauntered slowly over the sandy beach to the strip of dark woods, skirted them, to avoid being seen from the windows of the house, and called: "Mr. Ingelow." "Here," answered a voice, and the peddler emerged from the trees and stood beside her. "You're a treasure, Mrs. Susan Sharpe," said the peddler--"worth your weight in crown diamonds. How is she?" "As well as can be expected. A good deal the better for seeing you from her window last evening." "I saw you both watching. She knows I have come to rescue her?" "Of course. She is a woman." "Does she recognize you?" "No," with a laugh. "She called me her best friend last night. If she only knew!" "She would still call you her best friend, perhaps. Your 'make-up' is a good one, Sarah, since she has failed to recognize you. What brought the doctor?" Susan Sharpe briefly told him. Mr. Ingelow whistled expressively. "So soon? But I have thought so. He is not the man to wait. Well, we must be ahead of him, Sarah." Sarah nodded. "Yes--how?" "I have it all arranged. Miss Dane must escape to-night. Look at this." He pointed to a basket at his feet. Mrs. Sharpe lifted the cover, and saw two lumps of raw beef. "Well?" she asked, wonderingly. "'A sop for Cerberus,'" laughed Hugh Ingelow; "a supper for the dogs. They'll never want another after." "What do you mean?" "The meat is poisoned; there is strychnine enough in these two pieces to kill a dozen dogs. I mean to throw that to them this evening." "But how?" "Over the wall, of course. What's their names? They'll come when I call them." "Tiger and Nero." "So be it. Tiger and Nero will devour the beef and ask no questions. An hour after they'll be as dead as two door-nails." "Poor fellows! But it can't be helped, I suppose?" "I suppose not. Save your sympathy, Sarah. You must do for the three old folks." "Poison them, too?" asked Sarah, grimly. "Not quite. Just put them to sleep."