a new phase. She
had turned in the winding sheet of her own weaving, and her hands were
clutching at the binding fabric.

At last, the train came in. It did not stop, but thundered through the
sleeping village, shrieking as it went. The sound died into a distant
rumble, then merged into the stillness of the night. Miss Evelina rose
from her chair, put on her wraps, slipped the jewel case into her bag,
and went out, closely veiled.

The light of the waning moon was dim and, veiled as she was, she felt
rather than saw the way. Steadfastly, she went down the steep road,
avoiding the sidewalk, for she remembered that Miss Mehitable's ears
were keen. Past the crossroads, to the right, down into the village,
across the tracks, then sharply to the left--the way was the same, but
the wayfarer was sadly changed.

She went unemotionally, seeing herself a divinely appointed instrument
of vengeance. Something outside her obsession had its clutch upon her
also, but it was new, and she did not guess that it was fully as
hideous.

Doctor Dexter's house was near the corner on a shaded street. At the
gate. Miss Evelina paused and, with her veil lifted, carefully
scrutinised the house for a possible light. She feared that some one
might be stirring, late as it was, but the old housekeeper always went
to bed promptly at nine, and on this particular night, Anthony Dexter
had gone to his room at ten, making sleep sure by a drug.

With hushed steps, Miss Evelina went furtively up to the house on the
bare earth beside the brick pavement. She was in a panic of fear, but
something beyond her control urged her on. Reaching the steps, she
hesitated, baffled for the moment, then sank to her knees. Slowly she
crept to the threshold, placed the jewel case so that it would fall
inward when the door was opened, and started back. Instinct bade her
hurry, but reason made her cautious. She forced herself to walk slowly
and to muffle the latch of the gate with her skirts as she had done
when she came in.

It seemed an hour before she crossed the tracks again, at the deserted
point she had chosen, but, in reality, it was only a few minutes. At
last she reached home, utterly exhausted by the strain she had put upon
herself. She had seen no one, heard no footstep save her own; she had
gone and returned as mysteriously as the night itself.

When she slept, she dreamed of the poppy bed on the western slope of
the garden. It was twili