The sight of this revived all that agitation which he had felt before, but which had been calmed during the severe efforts which he had been putting forth.  There was but one thought in his mind, and but one desire in his heart.

His wife.

He crouched low, with a more feverish dread of discovery at this supreme moment, and a fiercer thirst for some further revelation which might disclose what he suspected.  His breathing came thick and hard, and his brow lowered gloomily over his gleaming eyes.

He waited thus for some minutes, and the figure passed again.

He still watched.

Suddenly a figure appeared at the window.  It was a young girl, a blonde, with short golden curls.  The face was familiar indeed to him.  Could he ever forget it?  There it was full before him, turned toward him, as though that one, by some strange spiritual sympathy, was aware of his presence, and was thus turning toward him this mute appeal.  Her face was near enough for its expression to be visible.  He could distinguish the childish face, with its soft, sweet innocence, and he knew that upon it there was now that piteous, pleading, beseeching look which formerly had so thrilled his heart.  And it was thus that Dacres saw his child-angel.

A prisoner, turning toward him this appeal!  What was the cause, and what did the Italian want of this innocent child?  Such was his thought.  What could his fiend of a wife gain by the betrayal of that angelic being?  Was it possible that even her demon soul could compass iniquity like this?  He had thought that he had fathomed her capacity for malignant wickedness; but the presence here of the child-angel in the power of these miscreants showed him that this capacity was indeed unfathomable.  At this sudden revelation of sin so enormous his very soul turned sick with horror.

He watched, and still looked with an anxiety that was increasing to positive pain.

And now, after one brief glance, Minnie drew back into the room.  There was nothing more to be seen for some time, but at last another figure appeared.

He expected this; he was waiting for it; he was sure of it; yet deep down in the bottom of his heart there was a hope that it might not be so, that his suspicions, in this case at least, might be unfounded.  But now the proof came; it was made manifest here before his eyes, and in the light of day.

In spite of himself a low groan escaped him.  He buried his face in his hands and shut out the sight.  Then suddenly he raised his head again and stared, as though in this face there was an irresistible fascination by which a spell was thrown over him.

It was the face of Mrs. Willoughby—­youthful, beautiful, and touching in its tender grace.  Tears were now in those dark, luminous eyes, but they were unseen by him.  Yet he could mark the despondency of her attitude; he could see a certain wild way of looking up and down and in all directions; he noted how her hands grasped the window-ledge as if for support.