she strike this blow--it is quite evident only one has been struck.

"And besides," says Superintendent Ferrick, argumentatively to himself,
"it's fifteen minutes' fast walking from the house to the gates.
Fifteen minutes only elapse between the time Nurse Pool sees her come
out of the nursery and Maid Ellen finds her mistress murdered. And
I'll be sworn, she hasn't been out of the house to-day. All last night
they _say_ she kept herself shut up in her room. Suppose she
wasn't--suppose she went out last night and tried to hide it, is it
likely--come, I say! is it likely, she would take and throw it right
in the very spot, where it was sure to be found? A Tartar that young
woman is, I have no doubt, but she's a long way off being a fool. She
may know _who_ has done this murder, but I'll stake my professional
reputation, in spite of Mrs. Pool, that she never did it herself."

A thin, drizzling rain comes on with the night, the trees drip, drip
in a feeble melancholy sort of way, the wind has a lugubrious sob in
its voice, and it is intensely dark. It is about nine o'clock, when
Miss Catheron rises from her place by the sick-bed and goes out of the
room. In the corridor she stands a moment, with the air of one who
looks, and listens. She sees no one. The dark figure of a woman, who
hovers afar off and watches her, is there, but lost in a shadowy
corner; a woman, who since the murder, has never entirely lost sight
of her. Miss Catheron does not see her, she takes up a shawl, wraps it
about her, over her head, walks rapidly along the passage, down a back
stairway, out of a side door, little used, and so out into the dark,
dripping, sighing night.

There are the Chesholm constabulary on guard on the wet grass and
gravel elsewhere--there are none here. But the quiet figure of Jane