d, a slinking, halting, uncertain motion,
belonging surely to some one who sees an enemy, a spy in every flitting
shadow. Nearer and nearer it comes now into the fuller glare of the
lamp-light, and stops short at the door so dreaded by the castle
servants.

Looking uneasily around him, Arthur Dynecourt--for it is he--unfastens
this door, and, entering hastily, closes it firmly behind him, and
ascends the staircase within. There is no halting in his footsteps now,
no uncertainty, no caution, only a haste that betokens a desire to get
his errand over as quickly as possible.

Having gained the first landing, he walks slowly and on tiptoe again,
and, creeping up the stone stairs, crouches down so as to bring his ear
on a level with the lower chink of the door.

Alas, all is still; no faintest groan can be heard! The silence of Death
is on all around. In spite of his hardihood, the cold sweat of fear
breaks out upon Dynecourt's brow; and yet he tells himself that now he
is satisfied, all is well, his victim is secure, is beyond the power of
words or kindly search to recall him to life. He may be discovered now
as soon as they like. Who can fix the fact of his death upon him? There
is no blow, no mark of violence to criminate any one. He is safe, and
all the wealth he had so coveted is at last his own!

There is something fiendish in the look of exultation that lights Arthur
Dynecourt's face. He has a small dull lantern with him, and now it
reveals the vile glance of triumph that fires his eyes. He would fain
have entered to gaze upon his victim, to assure himself of his victory,
but he refrains. A deadly fear that he may not yet be quite dead keeps
him back, and, with a frown, he prepares to descend once more.

Again he listens, but the sullen roar of the rising night wind is all
that can be heard. His hand shakes, his face assumes a livid hue, yet he
tells himself that surely this deadly silence is better than what he
listened to last night. Then a ghostly moaning, almost incessant and
unearthly in its sound, had pierced his brain. It was more like the cry
of a dying brute than that of a man. Sir Adrian slowly starved to death!
In his own mind Arthur can see him now, worn, emaciated, lost to all
likeness of anything fair or comely. Have the rats attacked him yet? As
this grewsome thought presents itself, Dynecourt rises quickly from his
crouching position, and, flying down the steps, does not stop running
until he arri