ver-heat
throbbed again in her blood, and flushed fiercely in her cheeks. Swift,
smooth, and noiseless, she paced from end to end of the corridor, with
her arms folded in her shawl and her eye moment after moment on the
clock.

Three out of the next five minutes passed, and again the suspense began
to madden her. The space in the corridor grew too confined for the
illimitable restlessness that possessed her limbs. She went down into
the hall again, and circled round and round it like a wild creature in
a cage. At the third turn, she felt something moving softly against her
dress. The house-cat had come up through the open kitchen door--a large,
tawny, companionable cat that purred in high good temper, and followed
her for company. She took the animal up in her arms--it rubbed its
sleek head luxuriously against her chin as she bent her face over it.
"Armadale hates cats," she whispered in the creature's ear. "Come up and
see Armadale killed!" The next moment her own frightful fancy horrified
her. She dropped the cat with a shudder; she drove it below again with
threatening hands. For a moment after, she stood still, then in headlong
haste suddenly mounted the stairs. Her husband had forced his way back
again into her thoughts; her husband threatened her with a danger which
had never entered her mind till now. What if he were not asleep? What if
he came out upon her, and found her with the Purple Flask in her hand?

She stole to the door of Number Three and listened. The slow, regular
breathing of a sleeping man was just audible. After waiting a moment to
let the feeling of relief quiet her, she took a step toward Number
Four, and checked herself. It was needless to listen at _that_ door.
The doctor had told her that Sleep came first, as certainly as Death
afterward, in the poisoned air. She looked aside at the clock. The time
had come for the fourth Pouring.

Her hand began to tremble violently as she fed the funnel for the fourth
time. The fear of her husband was back again in her heart. What if
some noise disturbed him before the sixth Pouring? What if he woke on
a sudden (as she had often seen him wake) without any noise at all? She
looked up and down the corridor. The end room, in which Mr. Bashwood had
been concealed, offered itself to her as a place of refuge. "I might go
in there!" she thought. "Has he left the key?" She opened the door to
look, and saw the handkerchief thrown down on the floor. Was it Mr.
Bash