maid's retreating form, and Mrs. Rutherford instantly shot the bolt.

She cast a sad and wistful glance around the dainty room and on its
glittering contents. "_J'etais si bien ici_," she said regretfully. "I had
found here the existence which suited me, and now the end has come. It is
not in my nature to remain satisfied with a life of poverty and
respectability, and I will not return to one of degradation and vice. But,
after all, what does it matter? My fate would have found me sooner or
later, and this soft couch is better than a hospital bed or the slabs of
La Morgue: this draught is more soothing than the cold waters of the
Thames or the Seine. Life is no longer a game that is worth the candle:
let us extinguish the lights and put the cards away."

She took up the phial of morphia, drew the little sofa nearer to the
fireplace and extended herself upon it. The daylight faded from the sky
and night came, and with the night came sleep--a sleep whose dream was of
Eternity, and whose wakening light would be the dawn of the resurrection
morning.

"Accidental death" was the verdict of the coroner and the newspapers, and,
in fact, of the world in general--a conclusion much assisted by the
evidence of Christine, who testified that her mistress was in the habit of
using narcotics and anaesthetics in large quantities to relieve the pain
of the neuralgic headaches from which she was a constant sufferer. Society
said, "How sad! Dreadful, is it not?" and went on its way--not exactly
rejoicing, for the death of Mrs. Rutherford deprived its members of her
long-promised, long-talked-of Shrove-Tuesday ball, and consequently the
gay world mourned her loss very sincerely for a short time; in fact, till
a well-known leader of fashion announced her intention of giving a
fancy-dress party on the night thus left vacant, whereupon Society was