Sybilla Silver threw the dagger, with a quick, fierce gesture, into the wood, and sprung in among them with glistening, greedy black eyes.  They stood in a semicircle, in horror-struck silence, on the terrace.  The light of half a dozen lanterns streamed redly on the stone flooring, but redder than that lurid light, a great pool of blood lay gory before them.  The iron railing, painted creamy white, was all clotted with jets of blood, and clinging to a projecting knob, something fluttered in the bleak blast, but they did not see it.  All eyes were riveted on the awful sight before them—­every tongue was paralyzed.  Edwards, the valet, was the first to break the dreadful silence.

“My master!” he cried, shrilly; “he will fall!”

He dropped his lantern and sprung forward just in time and no more.  The young baronet reeled and fell heavily backward.  The sight of that blood—­the life-blood of his bride—­seemed to freeze the very heart in his body.  With a low moan he lay in his servant’s arms like a dead man.

“He has fainted,” said the voice of Sybilla Silver.  “Lift him up and carry him to the house.”

“Wait!” cried some one.  “What is this?”

He tore the fluttering garment off the projection and held it up to the light.

“My lady’s Injy scarf!”

No one knew who spoke—­all recognized it.  It was a little Cashmere shawl Lady Kingsland often wore.  Another thrilling silence followed; then—­

“The Lord be merciful!” gasped a house-maid.  “She’s been murdered, and we in our beds!”

Sybilla Silver, leaning lightly against the railing, turned authoritatively to Edwards: 

“Take your master to his room, Edwards.  It is no use of lingering here now; we must wait until morning.  Some awful deed has been done, but it may not be my lady murdered.”

“How comes her shawl there, then?” asked the old butler.  “Why can’t she be found in the house?”

“I don’t know.  It is frightfully mysterious, but nothing more can be done to-night.”

“Can’t there?” said the butler.  “Jackson and Fletcher will go to the village and get the police and search every inch of the park before daylight.  The murderer can’t be far away.”

“Probably not, Mr. Norris.  Do as you please about the police, only if you ever wish your master to recover from that death-like swoon, you will carry him at once to the house and apply restoratives.”

She turned away with her loftiest air of hauteur, and Miss Silver had always been haughty to the servants.  More than one dark glance followed her now.

“You’re a hard one, you are, if there ever was a hard one!” said the butler.  “There’s been no luck in the house since you first set foot in it.”

“She always hated my lady,” chimed in a female.  “It’s my opinion she’ll be more glad than sorry if she is made away with.  She wanted Sir Everard for herself.”