soon, and she would think her so cold and
cruel. She must really try to cry a little when Aunt Margaret came,
even though she didn't feel sorry that John was dead. The stove-pipes
had been removed, and she sat by the empty pipe-hole listening idly to
the sound from below. She could hear John Coulson's low, deep voice,
and Sarah Emily's loud lamentations. She wished she could act like
Sarah Emily, it seemed so much more sympathetic. Her mind seemed to
have become possessed of a keenness never felt before. She thought out
every detail of the changed circumstances John's death must bring,
forgetting nothing. It would mean that she could not leave home quite
so soon, she reflected, and even wondered how Mrs. Jarvis would feel
when she learned that Elizabeth must wear black.

And all the time she was feeling ashamed that she could sit so
callously making plans, while even now John's dead body must be on its
way home. But then she did not feel sorry. She wondered if there had
ever before been anyone bereaved who had been so heartless.

The sound of wheels reached her alert senses, and she arose and went to
the window overlooking the lane. She saw a carriage come down with her
aunt and Mary in it, and Charles Stuart driving. She did not think it
strange that he should be there, but only wondered if he felt sorry
about John. Evidently Mary did, for she was sobbing convulsively, and
Aunt Margaret walked so slowly that Charles Stuart gave her his arm up
the garden path. Elizabeth arose and softly closed the door, lest her
aunt come and find her. She was not sorry that John was killed.

She came back to her seat by the pipe-hole and again listened to the
sounds of lamentation from below. Then the study door closed and she
could hear only the voices of Charles Stuart and John Coulson. She
peeped down and saw Charles Stuart's face. He was sitting by her
father's desk, and he did not look sorry, only angry. His face was
ghastly pale and his eyes burned red as he stretched his clenched fist
along the top of the desk. Elizabeth leaned down and deliberately
listened in the hope that she might hear some details of the accident,
that would make her feel sorry.

"Oh, John Coulson," the low, anguished voice was saying, "it's devilish
work this money-making. It's blood money that man Huntley is getting,
and he declares he knew nothing about it--and I suppose he doesn't, but
he'll take the money, you'll see! And Mrs.