er strength could not still
the wild fluttering of her nerves through the long-drawn-out suspense
of that dreadful day. At every sound she hastened to the door to look
for Beelzebub, long before he could possibly return. At the striking of
every hour she strained her ears to listen.

But when at last she heard the hoof-beats that told of the negro's
approach she felt that she could not go again; she lacked the physical
strength to seek him and hear the truth.

For a time she sat quite still, gathering all her forces for the ordeal.
Then at length she compelled herself, and rose.

Beelzebub was grooming his horse. He looked up at her approach and
grinned.

"Well, Beelzebub," she said through her white lips, "have you seen Mr.
Curtis?"

"Yes, missis." Beelzebub rolled his eyes intelligently. He seemed
unaware of the tragedy in the English girl's drawn face.

"And the white man?" she said.

"Mr. Curtis think the white man die soon," said Beelzebub.

"Ah!" She pressed her hand tightly against her heart. She felt as if its
throbbing would choke her. "And--his name?" she said.

Beelzebub paused and opened his eyes to their widest extent. He was
making a supreme effort, and the result was monstrous. But Sybil did not
quail; she scarcely saw him.

"His name?" she said; and again, raising her voice, "His name?"

The whole world seemed to rock while she waited, but she stood firm in
the midst of chaos. Her whole soul was concentrated upon Beelzebub's
reply.

It came at last with the effect of something uttered from an immense
distance that was yet piercingly distinct.

"Went--" said Beelzebub, and paused; then, with renewed effort,
"Wentworth."

And Sybil turned from him, shrinking as though something evil had
touched her, and walked stiffly back into the house. She had known it
all day long!

XIII

She never knew afterwards how long a time elapsed between the
confirmation of her doubts and the sudden starting to life of a new
resolution within her. It came upon her unexpectedly, striking through
the numbness of her despair, nerving her to action--the memory of her
dream and whence that dream had sprung. Robin Wentworth still lived. It
might be he would know her. It might even be that he was wanting her.
She would go to him.

It was the only thing left for her to do. Of the risk to herself she did
not think, nor would it have deterred her had it presented itself to her
mind. She felt as though he had