boat."

The words were scarcely out of her mouth, when she was seized with a
sudden idea--an idea so alluring, yet so bold withal, that the blood
flew from her cheeks. She made a step forward, paused, took another
step, and returned to the window. The strangers had turned down the
road and were out of sight.

For a full minute she stood there, tapping her foot.

"I will," she said, with sudden determination. "I will!" On Miss
Limpenny's maiden lip the words were as solemn as though she spoke
them at the altar. "I will,--and--I don't care what happens!"

Awful words! Awful in themselves, more awful from such lips, but
surely most awful as making the second-step in the moral decadence of
Troy!

Yet I would not have my readers too excited. They were words to
shudder at, indeed; but the immediate consequences were not bloody--
they were only to a limited degree tragic. It must be remembered
that the magnificence of all actions is relative to the performer,
nor would I seek to exalt Miss Limpenny to the level of a Semiramis
or a Dido; only, when I say that she bore a great soul in a little
body, I say no more than that she was a Trojan.

In short, Miss Limpenny did not, as the reader may have expected,
take a boat and pursue after the strangers. What she did was simply
to descend swiftly to the front hall, take down from its stand an
antique, brass-bound telescope of enormous proportions, and with it