* *

As Herbert Cane paid the penalty of his crimes the woman Petre at last
recovered consciousness.

I saw the look of abject terror upon her face as her eyes fell upon the
man lying dead upon the carpet before us.

She realised the terrible truth at once, and giving vent to a loud,
hysterical scream, rose and threw herself on her knees beside the man
whose wide-open eyes, staring into space, were fast glazing in death.

Edwards bent, and asked in a low voice whether I wished to give her into
custody for the attempt upon me.

But I replied in the negative.

"The assassin has received his just punishment and must answer to his
Maker," I replied. "That is enough. This scene will assuredly be a lesson
to her."

"She falsely accused Miss Shand, remember," he said. "She knew all the
time that Cane struck the poor girl down."

"No," I replied. "Now that the stigma has been removed from the one I
love, I will be generous. I will prefer no charge against her."

"Ah! dearest," cried Phrida, "I am glad of that. Let us forgive, and
endeavour, if possible, to forget these dark, black days and weeks when
both our lives were blighted, and the future seemed so hopeless and full
of tragedy."

"Yes," I said, "let us go forth and forget."

And with a last glance at the dead man, with the woman with dishevelled
hair kneeling in despair at his side, I took the arm of my beloved, and
kissing her before them all, led her out, away from the scene so full of
bitterness and horror.

* * * * *

To further prolong the relation of this tragic chapter of my life's
history would serve no purpose.

What more need I tell you than to say Mrs. Petre disappeared entirely,
apparently thankful to escape, and that at St. Mary Abbots, in
Kensington, a month ago, Phrida and I became man and wife, both Edwards
and Fremy being present.

As I pen these final lines I am sitting upon the balcony of the great
Winter Palace Hotel, in Luxor, within sight of the colossal ruins of
Karnak, for we are spending a delightful honeymoon in Upper Egypt, that
region where the sun always shines and rain never falls. Phrida, in her
thin white cotton gown and white sun helmet, though it is January, is
seated beside me, her little hand in mine. Below us, in the great
garden, rise the high, feathery palms, above a riot of roses and
poinsettias, magnolias, and other sweet-smelling flowers.

It is the silent, breathless hour