He loved me because I am beautiful. His every defection proves it.
The others have all been beautiful. And to think that this gentle,
slender creature should have been the one to give him his death-blow.
It seems incredible. If it had been struck by some outraged husband,
strong of arm and fierce with vengeance, I could understand. But--but
this young, pretty, soft-eyed thing!"

But who may know the thoughts of the other occupant of that little
sitting-room? Who can put herself in the place of that despairing,
hunted creature who knew that blood was on the hands with which
she ate, and whose eyes were filled with visions of the death-chair?

So great was her fatigue that long before she finished the meal her
tired lids began to droop, her head to nod in spasmodic surrenders
to an overpowering desire for sleep. Suddenly she dropped the fork
from her fingers and sank back in the comfortable chair, her head
resting against the soft, upholstered back. Her lids fell, her hands
dropped to the arms of the chair. A fine line appeared between her
dark eyebrows,--indicative of pain.

For many minutes Sara Wrandall watched the haggardness deepen in
the face of the unconscious sleeper. Then, even as she wondered
at the act, she went over and took up one of the slim hands in her
own. The hand of an aristocrat! It lay limp in hers, and helpless.
Long, tapering fingers and delicately pink with the return of
warmth.

Rousing herself from the mute contemplation of her charge, she shook
the girl's shoulder. Instantly she was awake and staring, alarm in
her dazed, bewildered eyes.