own in the snow and drank again. In
short, I nearly finished it; then I became confused; I looked at the
piece of broken bottle in my hand, took a fancy to its shape, and
breaking off a bit more, thrust it into one of my big pockets. Then I
staggered up to the horse; but I did not untie him.

Curiosity seized me again, and I thought I would take another look at the
ladies--perhaps they might want me--perhaps--I was pretty well confused,
but I went back and crawled once more into the window.

This time the place was silent--not a sound, not a breath,--but I
could see a faint glimmer of light. I followed this glimmer. Still
there was no sound.

I came to an open door. A couch was before me, heaped with cushions. A
long ray of moonlight had shot in through a communicating door, and I
could see everything by it. This was where the ladies had been when I
listened before, but they were not here now.

Weren't they? Why did I tremble so, then, and stare and stare at those
cushions? Why did I feel I must pull them away, as I presently did? I was
mad with liquor and might easily have imagined what I there saw; but I
did not think of this then. I believed what I saw instantly. Miss
Cumberland was dead, and I had discovered the crime. She had killed
herself--no, she had been killed!

Should I yell out murder? No, no; I could be sorry without that. I would
not yell--mistresses were plenty. I had liked her, but I need not yell.
There was something else I could do.

She had a ring on her finger--a ring that for months I had gloated over
and watched, as I had never watched and gloated over any other beautiful
thing in my life. I wanted it--I had always wanted it. It was before me,
for the taking now--I should be a fool to leave it there for some other
wretch to pilfer. I had loved her--I would love the ring.

Reaching down, I took it. I drew it from her finger; I put it in my
pocket; I--God in heaven! The eyes I had seen glassed in death were
looking at me.

She was not dead--she had been witness of the theft. Without a thought of
what I was doing, my hands closed round her throat. It was
drink--fright--terror at the look she gave me--which made me kill her;
not my real self. My real self could have shrieked when, in another
instant, I saw my work.

But shrieking would not bring her back and it would quite ruin me. Miss
Carmel was somewhere near. I heard her now at the telephone; in another
minute she would come out and meet