But as he lifted the weapon his eye fell on it; he saw what it was; he

had not observed it before, since we had been in darkness. And as he

looked his composure seemed to desert him. He paled, and his hand

trembled and hung loosely. The mad woman, seizing her chance, snatched

the dagger from him, and like a flash of lightning drove it into his

left breast. Sir Cyril sank down, the dagger sticking out from his

light overcoat.

The deed was over before I could move. I sprang forward. Deschamps

laughed, and turned to me. I closed with her. She scratched and bit,

and she was by no means a weak woman. At first I feared that in her

fury she would overpower me. At length, however, I managed to master

her; but her strength was far from exhausted, and she would not yield.

She was mad; time was passing. I could not afford to be nice in my

methods, so I contrived to stun her, and proceeded to tie her hands

with my handkerchief. Then, panting, I stood up to survey the floor.

I may be forgiven, perhaps, if at that frightful crisis I was not

perfectly cool, and could not decide on the instant upon the wisest

course of action to pursue. Sir Cyril was insensible, and a little

circle of blood was forming round the dagger; Deschamps was

insensible, with a dark bruise on her forehead, inflicted during our

struggle; Rosa was insensible--I presumed from excess of emotion at

the sudden fright.

I gazed at the three prone forms, pondering over my handiwork and that

of Chance. What should be the next step? Save for my own breathing,

there was a deathlike silence. The light from the empty room above

rained down upon us through the trap, illuminating the still faces

with its yellow glare. Was any other person in the house? From what

Sir Cyril had said, and from my own surmises, I thought not. Whatever

people Deschamps might have employed to carry messages, she had

doubtless dismissed them. She and Rosa had been alone in the building.

I can understand now that there was something peculiarly attractive to

the diseased imagination of Deschamps in the prospect of inviting her

victim to the snare, and working vengeance upon a rival unaided,

unseen, solitary in that echoing and deserted mansion. I was horribly

perplexed. It struck me that I ought to be gloomily sorrowful, but I

was not. At the bottom of my soul I felt happy, for Rosa was saved.

It was Rosa who first recovered consciousness, and her movement in

sitting up recalled me to my duty. I ran to Sir Cyril, and, kneeling

down so as to screen his body from her sight, I drew the dagger from

its sheath, and began hastily, with such implements as I could

contrive on the spur of the moment, to attend to his wound.




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