"Your clothes are torn--would attract attention! These were on the
rack--I don't know whose--but I stole them!--stole them!"

She spoke quickly with a little hard note of self-mockery. Her voice
broke off suddenly; she looked around her.

The coat and hat slipped from her arm; she looked at the window; the
curtain still moved, as if a hand had but recently touched it. She
stared at it--incredulously. He had gone; he would have none of her
assistance then; preferred--She listened, but caught only the rustling
of the heavy silk. When? Minutes passed; at her left, a candle,
carelessly adjusted by the maid, dripped to the dresser; its over-long
wick threw weird, ever-changing shadows; her own silhouette appeared in
various distorted forms on hangings and wall.

Still she heard nothing, nothing louder than the faint sounds at the
window; the occasional, mysterious creakings of old woodwork. He must
have long since reached the ground--the bottom of the old moat; perhaps,
as the police agent and several of his men were in the house, he might
even have attained the fringe of the wood. It was not so far
distant,--the space intervening from the top of the moat contained many
shrubs; in their friendly shadows--

She stole to the corner of the window now and cautiously peered out. The
sky was overcast; below, faint markings could just be discerned; beyond,
Cimmerian gloom--Strathorn wood.

Had he reached, could he reach it? A cool breeze fanned her cheeks
without lessening the flush that burned there; her lips were