"Hear me out. He is serving you as you treated me. It is retribution. You forfeited his respect and consideration. He gave you only the brief glamour of his passion, which has died, to re-live in the smiles of 'Paulina.'" "Philip, these lies are dastardly--cruel! You do not know what you are saying." "You cling hard to your faith!" he retorts savagely, her staunchness to Carol awaking a fever of indignation within him. "Did I ever in the old days deserve that hard term 'liar'?" She shakes her head. "Oh, no!" "You are waiting for him to-night, Eleanor. He had promised, I believe, to return?" She gazes down the slanting road. "Yes. He is late." Then, with a sudden cry: "And when he comes--oh! Philip, I had not realised it--your revenge! What can I do to save him? Anything--I care not what! I will go and leave him--I will kill myself here before your eyes, as a ransom! You are mistaken, he is _not_ false to me; any moment he may arrive. Only spare his life, for the love of Heaven!" She falls on her knees at Philip's feet, beating the air with her hands. He raises her gently, but firmly. "You need not look," he says, as her terrified eyes stare out at the moonlit scene, white and ghostly. "Yesterday he wrote to the woman Paulina, making all arrangements for their flight this night. She dropped the letter in the jungle, from a satchel full of shot. It is here." He holds out the torn envelope, with its broken seal and deadly intelligence. Eleanor takes it mechanically--as yet she cannot believe--while the sight of the familiar handwriting sends the hot blood coursing freely once more through her brain. She draws the closely-worded sheet from its resting-place and crosses to the light to scan the text. Philip watches her face as it bends over the letter. He has struck a match and holds it up to illuminate that fatal message. Every vestige of life seems to fly from her features. The page swims before her tailing sight, the words become crossed and blurred. She has read enough! Then she remembers Paulina's fingers have touched this paper, perhaps her lips, and it flutters from Eleanor's hands at the thought, falling silently between her and Philip. "Now," he cries, "can you grasp my mission? Do you guess why I am here? There was no longer any cause for him to live." Philip throws back his coat, and she sees the shirt beneath it is splashed with blood. [Illustration: Philip throws back his coat, and she sees the shirt beneath it is splashed with blood.] He takes her icy hand and draws her towards the verandah. "I killed him at sunset," he whispers, pointing outwards, "over there, on that far hill. When night came I bore him back to you. Now in the moonlight, down near the well, or to-morrow at dawn, you will find your lover. His set face is looking up from the long grass, his last word was 'Paulina!'" Eleanor staggers to the rails, and points towards the well.