"Very well, my man," the baronet said. "That will do. I will go at
once. Thomas, order my horse, and fetch my riding-cloak and gloves."

The valet stared in astonishment, but went to obey. It was something
altogether without precedent, this queer proceeding on the part of his
master, and, taken in connection with that other odd event in church,
looked remarkably suspicious.

The night was dark and starless, and the wind blew raw and bleak as the
baronet dashed down the avenue and out into the high-road. He almost
wondered at himself for complying with the dying woman's desire, but
some inward impulse beyond his control seemed driving him on.

He rode rapidly, and a quarter of an hour brought him to the sexton's
cottage. A feeble light glimmered from the window out into the
blackness of the night. A moment later and he stood within, in the
presence of the dying.

The Reverend Cyrus Green sat by the table, a Bible in his hand.
Kneeling by the bedside, her face ghastly white, her burning black eyes
dry and tearless, was the young woman. And like a dead woman already,
stretched on the bed, lay Zenith.

But she was not dead. At the sound of the opening door, at the sound
of his entrance, she opened her eyes, dulling fast in death, and fixed
them on Sir Jasper.

"I knew you would come," she said, in a husky whisper. "You dare not
stay away! The spirit of the dying Zenith drove you here in spite of
yourself. Come nearer--nearer! Sir Jasper Kingsland, don't hover