wages
of sin is death.' Yes, that is right. He is dead; the blow fell first
on him, that was right, and I am about to die; and you--what will
happen to you, the Judas of the plot, eh? You do not think that you
will enjoy your blood-money in peace, do you?"

"What do you mean?" asked Philip, nervously; her wild way frightened
him.

"Mean! why, that you are the sorriest knave of all. This man was at
least led on to crime by passion; Bellamy entered into it to work out
a secret revenge, poor fool; I acted because I couldn't help myself at
first, and then for the sake of the game itself, for when I take a
thing in my hand, I _will_ succeed. But you, Philip Caresfoot, you
sold your own flesh and blood for money or money's worth, and you are
the worst of all--worse than George, for even a brutal love is a
nobler thing than avarice like yours. Well, as the sin is, so will the
punishment be."

"It is a lie! I thought that he was dead."

"You thought that Arthur Heigham was dead!--then I read your thoughts
very wrongly when we met upon the road on Christmas Day. You wished to
think that he was dead, but you did not think it. Even now your
conscience is making a coward of you, and, as you said just now, for
you the silence of the dead is more terrible than the accusations of
the living. I know a little about you, Philip. Do you not see shadows
on your walls, and do not departed voices come to haunt you in your
sleep? I know you do, and I will tell you this--the _Things_ which you
have suffered from at times shall henceforth be your continual
companions. If you can pray, pray with all your strength that your
daughter may not die; for, if she does, her shadow will always be
there to haunt you with the rest. Why do you tremble so at the mere
mention of a spirit? Stand still, and I will show you one. I can if I
like."

Philip could stand it no longer. With a curse he burst out of the
room. Presently she followed him, and found him standing in front of
the house, wiping the cold perspiration from his forehead.

"You accursed woman," he said, "go, and never come near this house
again!"

"I never shall come to this house again," she answered. "Ah, here is
my carriage. Good-bye, Philip Caresfoot. You are a very wealthy man
now--worth I do not know how many thousands a year. You have been
singularly fortunate--you have accomplished your ends. Few people can
do that. May the accomplishment bring happiness with it! If you wish
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