. Should she rouse him and ask for his assistance? No: she knew
that this man was a mere tool of Hugo's; she could not trust him to help
her against her husband's will. There was nothing for it but to do what
she could, without help from anyone. She would be brave for Mrs.
Luttrell's sake, although she had not been brave for her own.

Oh, why had she not made her warning to Vivian a little stronger? Why
had Brian Luttrell not come home that night to Netherglen? It was too
late to expect him now.

Her heart beat fast and her hands trembled, but she went resolutely
enough to the dressing-room from which Hugo had done his best to exclude
her. The door was slightly ajar: oh wonderful good fortune! and the fire
was out. The room was in darkness; and the door leading into Mrs.
Luttrell's apartment stood open--she had a full view of its warmly
lighted space.

She remained motionless for a few minutes: then seeing her opportunity,
she glided behind the thick curtain that screened the window. Here she
could see the great white bed with its heavy hangings of crimson damask,
and the head of the sick woman in its frilled cap lying on the pillows:
she could see also her husband's face and figure, as he stood beside the
little table on which Mrs. Luttrell's medicine bottles were usually
kept, and she shivered at the sight.

His face wore its craftiest and most sinister expression. His eyes were
narrowed like those of a cat about to spring: the lines of his face were
set in a look of cruel malice, which Kitty had learned to know. What was
he doing? He had a tumbler in one hand, and a tiny phial in the other:
he was measuring out some drops of a fluid into the glass.

He set down the little bottle on the table, and held up the tumbler to
the light. Then he took a carafe and poured a tea-spoonful of water on
the liquid. Kitty could see the phial on the table very distinctly. It
bore in red letters the inscription: "Poison." And again she asked
herself: what was Hugo going to do?

Breathlessly she watched. He smiled a little to himself, smelt the
liquid, and held it once more towards the light, as if to judge with his
narrowed eyes of the quantity required. Then, with a noiseless foot and
watchful eye, he moved towards the bed, still holding the tumbler in his
hand. He looked down for a moment at the pale and wrinkled face upon the
pillow; then he spoke in a peculiarly smooth and ingratiating tone of
voice.

"Aunt Margaret," he s