“She is there!” he thought, exultantly, and went in through a door that Otho had carelessly left open. Without taking the trouble to explore the lower regions, he made his way to the second story, following the location of the light he had detected. When his stealthy steps reached the upper corridor he saw, to his amazement, a man stealing along in front of him, guided by a dark lantern. The next moment he recognized him as Otho Maury, whose steps he had once dogged in the hope of discovering Floy. “Aha! I was right after all; he _is_ her lover. I will watch and see what comes of this!” he cried to himself, keeping at a safe distance behind Otho. By this means he became an excited spectator of the tragic scene that followed, and learned how deeply Floy feared and dreaded her villainous persecutor. He was springing into the room to her assistance, when the frantic thrust of her little dagger struck Maury at random in the neck, and stretched him bleeding at her feet. At her sobs of terror and remorse--for it was awful to the gentle, white-souled girl to realize that she had taken life, even in self-defense--he cried, cheerily: “Bravo, miss! that was a brave deed. He deserved death; but if you had waited a minute longer, I would have killed him for you myself.” Floy shrunk against the window, with a low cry of alarm, as she beheld this new intruder. “Oh, God, why am I so bitterly persecuted?” “I beg you not to be afraid of me, Miss Fane. I am your friend,” exclaimed the detective, kindly. His voice sounded so honest and kindly that Floy said, faintly: “Who are you? How came you here, sir?” “I am Floyd Landon, a detective, miss; and I came here to search for you, but not with any evil intent, be sure; for I was employed by a true friend of yours, who will be delighted when I take you to her house.” Floy summoned courage to look at him, and saw that he was a good-looking, middle-aged person, with the frank, open face an honest countryman. No one would have suspected that he was one of the most successful detectives in the city of New York. His heart was as kind as his face, too, and it was touched by the misery of the girl who was so remorseful over having destroyed a life. Her beauty astonished him also, even though Mrs. Beresford’s flattering description had prepared him in some measure for Floy’s charms. “A friend of mine!” she cried, in surprise. “Oh then it must have been Mrs. Banks. I think she is the only true friend I have in the world.” “No, it is not Mrs. Banks; it is another woman in the great city of New York.” “Not Mrs. Horton; she is no friend of mine!” cried Floy, who suspected the woman of having sent Otho Maury to her room that evening. “Not Mrs. Horton,” he replied, and bent down to look at Otho. “His heart beats faintly; you have not killed him, miss--more’s the pity, for he’s only a human serpent,” he added, under his breath.