been coveted by three men and won by one--for a few brief days'
possession. Here lay the repository of Ravengar's secrets, the grave of
Hugo's happiness, the dead mate of Tudor's desire. Here lay the eternal
woman, symbol of all beauty and all charm, victimized by her own
loveliness. For if she had not been lovely, thought Hugo, if the curves
of her cheek and her nostrils and the colour of her skin had been ever
so slightly different, the world might have contained one widower, one
ruined heart, and one murderer the less that night.

He did not doubt, he could not doubt, after Ravengar's threats, that she
had been murdered. And yet he was not angry then. He did not feel a
great grief. He was conscious of no sensation save a numbed and desolate
awe. He had not begun to feel. Ledging the lid crossways on the coffin,
he placed his hand gently upon Camilla's brow. It was colder than he had
expected, and it had the peculiar hard, inelastic touch of incipient
decay--that touch which communicates a shudder even to the most
impassive.

'I must go,' he whispered, staring spell-bound at her face.

He was surprised to find drops of moisture falling on the shroud. They
were his tears, and yet he had not known that he was crying.

He hid her again beneath the elm plank, and, taking the screws one by
one from the mantel-piece, shut her up for ever from any human gaze. And
then, nearly collapsing under a nervous tension such as he had never
before experienced, he turned to leave the apartment as he had entered
it, like a thief. But the mystery of the heavy velvet portière
invincibly attracted him. His steps wavered towards it. He fancied he
saw something dark protruding under the curtain, and he pulled the