was; her eyes burned with the lust of homicide, and with uplifted
twitching hands she advanced like a tiger, and Rosa retreated before
her to the middle of the room.

Then there was the click of a spring, and a square of the centre of
the floor, with Rosa standing upon it, swiftly descended into the room
where we were. The thing was as startling as a stage illusion; yes, a
thousand-fold more startling than any trick I ever saw. I may state
here, what I learnt afterwards, that the room above was originally a
dining-room, and the arrangement of the trap had been designed to
cause a table to disappear and reappear as tables were wont to do at
the notorious banquets of King Louis in the Petit Trianon. The glass
observatory enabled the kitchen attendants to watch the progress of
the meals. Sir Cyril knew of the contrivance, and, rushing to the
upright pillar, had worked it most opportunely.

The kitchen, as I may now call it, was illuminated with light from the
room above. I hastened to Rosa, who on seeing Sir Cyril and myself
gave a little cry, and fell forward fainting. She was a brave girl,
but one may have too many astonishments. I caught her, and laid her
gently on the floor. Meanwhile Deschamps (the dying Deschamps!) stood
on the edge of the upper floor, stamping and shouting in a high fever
of foiled revenge. She was mad. When I say that she was mad, I mean
that she was merely and simply insane. I could perceive it instantly,
and I foresaw that we should have trouble with her.

Without the slightest warning, she jumped down into the midst of us.
The distance was a good ten feet, but with a lunatic's luck she did
not hurt herself. She faced Sir Cyril, shaking in every limb with
passion, and he, calm, determined, unhurried, raised his dagger to
defend himself against this terrible lioness should the need arise.

But as he lifted the weapon his eye fell on it; he saw what it was; he
had not observed it before, since we had been in darkness. And as he
looked his composure seemed to desert him. He paled, and his hand
trembled and hung loosely. The mad woman, seizing her chance, snatched
the dagger from him, and like a flash of lightning drove it into his
left breast. Sir Cyril sank down, the dagger sticking out from his
light overcoat.

The deed was over before I could move. I sprang forward. Deschamps
laughed, and turned to me. I closed with her. She scratched and bit,
and she was by no means a weak woman. At first