All waited with bated breath, throbbing hearts, and strained hearing, but afterward there was stillness deep as the grave; for there at The Crags it was always very still by night, with no sounds to break the silence but the rustle of the wind in the trees outside, or the plaintive call of the whippoorwill on the wooded heights answering the tuwhit of the lonesome owl. As the minutes passed, they wondered if they could have imagined those awful sounds, if they had been but nightmare dreams evoked by a late supper and bad digestion. The unbroken silence convinced them of the latter theory, and they crept shivering and relieved back to their couches. And the summer night, so fraught with horror, waned to its close, and the birds awoke in the golden dawn, chirruping their matin songs, but one who was wont to rejoice in this sweet serenade opened not her window to listen now, and all was very still in Gipsy’s room until Mrs. Goodwill tiptoed softly in to see how her convalescent patient fared after her first night alone. And again the guests at The Crags, sleeping late after their disturbance of the night before, were startled from their dreams by ear-splitting shrieks that did not stop at two, but continued on and on, and echoed wildly through the hall as Mrs. Goodwill flew from Gipsy’s room to Miss Cyrilla’s door. Every one started broad awake then, and, panic-stricken, huddled on their clothes, swarming out into the hall. Mrs. Goodwill, holding Miss Cyrilla’s arm, was urging her toward an open door far down the corridor, and all comprehended that something awful must have happened. They followed like sheep, and directly the simple, white-hung little room was full of curious people. All knew it was the apartment of the girl who had been sick ever since they came. Comprehending that she was the subject of tragic interest, they gazed eagerly about. But Gipsy was not there. On the mantel a night-lamp burned low, with an odor of oil and charred wick, on the table some roses gathered yesterday were fading in a vase, the white bed was smooth and undisturbed. All this they took in at a glance. “Look--look at the chair, the floor, the curtains!” wailed the nurse, in a tragic voice. A second glance, and all recoiled with mingled cries. “Those horrible stains, are they blood?” “What has happened to Gipsy Darke?” Well might they ask! For the white curtains, flapping in the breeze at the open window, bore splashes of dark crimson, as though bloody hands had grasped them. On the window-sill were the same dull-red stains, and again upon the floor, and on the white-draped easy chair that was overturned as though in a desperate struggle for life and death. Oh, it was horrible, horrible! Splashes of crimson everywhere. And one of the young men, stumbling over some object on the floor, saw, as he recovered himself, the heavy glass paper-weight stained with blood.