it was
a dream. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his
power, a poor helpless thing. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass,
with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on
to the carpet. It could not be she who had done this. She had never
let off a pistol in her life. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a
faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. The smell of gunpowder
was strong in the room.

It was true. She had killed him. It was as much accident as anything,
but she had killed him. Once before--but that had been different. This
time they would call it murder.

She listened, listened intently for several minutes. People were
passing in the street below. She could hear their footsteps upon the
pavement. A hansom stopped a little way off. She could hear the bell
tinkle as the horse shook its head. There was no one stirring in the
flats. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. She
moved a little nearer to him.

It was horrible, but she must do it. She sank upon her knees and
unbuttoned his coat. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and
legal looking. She drew it out with shaking fingers. There was a great
splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky. A deadly
sickness came over her, the room seemed spinning round. She staggered
to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. She
held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. Then
she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more
upright.

Still silence everywhere. She pulled down her veil and made her way to
the door. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall. Still
no sound. Her knees almost sank beneath her as she raised the latch of
the front door and looked out. There was no one to be seen. She
passed down the stairs and into the street.

She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift
level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible
faintness all the time hovered about her. Then she called a hansom and
drove home.

* * * * *

"Miss Pellissier," Brendon said gently, "I am afraid that some fresh
trouble has come to you."

She smiled at him cheerfully.

"Am I dull?" she said. "I am sorry."

"You could never be that," he answered, "but you are at least more
serious than usual."

"Perhaps," she said, "I am superstitious. This is my last week at th