She fluttered away in the chill spring twilight with the last words, leaving her fiance gazing after her with an expression that was not altogether unmixed admiration.

“I’ll be darned if I ever met the like of you, Miss Silver, in all my travels.  You might be own sister to Lucifer himself for wickedness and revengefulness.  I’ll find out what’s at the bottom of all this cantankerous spite before I make you Mrs. G. W. Parmalee, or I’ll know the reason why.  It’s all very fine to have a handsome wife, with big black eyes and a spunky spirit, but a fellow doesn’t want a wife that will bury the carving-knife in him the first time he contradicts her.”

Sybilla was a good walker; the last yellow line of the watery February sunset had hardly faded as she tripped up the long drive under the gaunt, tossing trees.  Mr. Edwards still lounged in elegant leisure in the hall, conversing with a gigantic young footman, and his fishy eyes kindled for the second time as Sybilla appeared, flushed and bright and sparkling, after her windy, twilight walk.

“I have outstripped the storm after all, you see,” she remarked as she went by.  “I don’t believe we shall have it before midnight.  Oh, Claudine! is my lady in her room?  I have been on an errand for her down the village.”

She had encountered the jaunty little French girl on the upper landing, and paused to put the question.

“Yes,” Claudine said.  “Madame’s headache was easier.  She is reading in her dressing-room.”

Sybilla tapped at the dressing-room door, then turned the handle and entered.  It was an exquisite little bijou of a chamber, with fluted walls of rose silk, and delicious plump beauties with bare shoulders and melting eyes, by Greuze.  A wood fire flickered on the marble hearth, and was flashed back from lofty mirrors as tall as the room.

Lying back in an arm-chair, her book fallen aimlessly on her lap, her dark, deep eyes looking straight before her into the evening gloaming, my lady sat alone.

The melancholy wash of the waves on the shore, the mournful sighing of the evening wind among the groaning trees, the monotonous ticking of a dainty buhl clock, and the light fall of the cinders sounded abnormally loud in the dead silence of the apartment.

Lady Kingsland turned round at the opening of the door, and her face hardened into that cold look it always wore at sight of her husband’s brilliant protegee.

“I have been to the village, my lady,” Sybilla said.  “I have seen Mr. Parmalee.  He will be in the Beech Walk precisely at eight.”

My lady bent her head in cold acknowledgment.  Sybilla paused an instant, determined to make her speak.

“Can I be of service to you in any way in this matter, my lady?” she asked.

“You?” in proud surprise.  “Certainly not.  I wish to be alone, Miss Silver.  Be good enough to go.”

Sybilla’s little brown fist clinched itself furiously, once on the landing outside.