across her eyes as if to banish some vision that enthralled her, and turned toward the door. But at the first step her physical strength failed her, she tottered and would have fallen, so limp and nerveless was she, had he not sprung to her side and held her to her feet. Once again, as on that night at the bridge, she felt the pressure of his arm about her. It revived her, strengthened her, thrilled her through with new and exultant life. So, supported and revivified, she moved with him across the room toward the hall.
"Thank you!" she said. "It was foolish of me to be faint. But I am very strong now. Good-night!"
"No," he replied, "I cannot let you go alone. You are not fit. Sit here and I will call a cab, and I'll send the nurse to stay with you till it comes."
His will was still her law and she obeyed. So he placed her in a chair and hurried away. But, when he was gone, she was seized with a sudden desire to escape—before he should return—before others should come and find her there—before her courage should utterly fail. She rose, hurried down the hall, pushed back the snap-lock of the door which she opened and closed behind her, went down the steps to the walk, and started to cross the rectory lawn to the street.
A man stepped out from the shadows beneath the parlor bay, gripped her shoulder, and swung her around till she faced him. By the light of the full moon she saw that it was Stephen Lamar. His eyes were blazing with murderous passion. His voice, as he spoke, was thick and hoarse.
"I tracked you here," he said. "I saw you—through the window. I told you—if you did it once more—I'd kill you both. I'm going—to do it."
Before she could move, or speak, or scream, there came a flash, a report, a wisp of curling smoke; she staggered, fell, lay prone on the rectory lawn, and there she died.
He turned and went up the steps to the door from
