“I have had!  You know that I have had—­and your face shows it!”

“You have none now—­absolutely none now!”

His emphatic declaration fell upon Cervera with an effect which Venner did not at first understand.

She sprang quickly toward him, gripping him hard by the wrist, while her every nerve seemed stimulated with sudden agitation.

“None now?  None now—­now?” she fiercely reiterated, in inquiring whispers.  “Do you mean that—­that it is done? that it is done?”

“Done?” gasped Venner, amazedly.  “Is what done?  What the devil are you driving at?”

She drew back, searching his eyes with hers, and hers were like those of a demon, in her momentary suspense.

“Then it isn’t—­it isn’t?” she hissed, through her white teeth.  “I thought from what you said that it was.  I thought—­”

“Good God! what do you mean?” cried Venner, aghast for a moment.

Then, struck with a sudden recollection, he turned and snatched an evening paper from a pocket of his coat, which he had tossed on a chair.  He had recalled certain leader lines which had caught his eye earlier in the evening, yet which he then had not had sufficient interest to follow.

Now he hurriedly opened the paper and read the story, or so much of it as enabled him to guess the truth.

It was the newspaper story of the girl found dead in Central Park that afternoon, with the mystery involving the sudden fatality, and the names of the murdered girl and her mistress, Violet Page.

A half-smothered oath of horror and dismay broke from Venner, after a moment.

It brought Cervera to his side, and she snatched the paper from him and read—­the story of her own failure; the miscarriage of her own jealous and murderous design.

She suppressed the shriek of mingled disappointment and fury that rose to her twitching lips, then passionately cast the paper upon the table.

“Well, what do you make of it?” she demanded, glaring at Venner’s colorless face.

“No need to ask,” he replied, hoarsely.  “You know what I make of it.”

“You think I did it?”

“I know you did it!”

“And killed the wrong girl?”

“And killed the wrong girl!”

“Can you guess how?”

“I don’t care how.  I know that you did it.”

“You will not betray me?” hissed Cervera, crouching before him, with eyes never leaving his.

“I have no wish to betray you.”

“You dare not! you dare not!”

“I shall not!”

“If you do—­”

The woman checked her words for an instant, and ran her hand into the bosom of her dress.  When she drew it forth it gripped a naked poniard, upon the polished blade of which the rays of light flashed with many a wicked gleam and glint.

“If you do,” she repeated, “I will send you after her, Rufus Venner!  I will do even more!  I will expose our whole game, and our whole gang!”