Leaving the fly before the front entrance, Sybilla stole round to that side door she had used the memorable night of March tenth.  She admitted herself without difficulty, and proceeded at once to Lady Kingsland’s sick-room.

She tapped lightly at the door.  It was opened instantly, and the pale face of Mildred looked out.

“You here!  How dare you, you cruel, wicked, merciless woman!” she indignantly cried.

“Hard words, Miss Kingsland.  Let me in, if you please—­I wish to see your mother.”

“You shall not come in!  The sight of you will kill her!  Was it not enough to swear away the life of her only son?  Do you want to blast her dying hours with the sight of your base, treacherous face?”

With a look of scornful contempt, Sybilla took her by the shoulder and drew her out of the room.

“Don’t be an idiot, Mildred Kingsland!  I gave my evidence—­how could I help it?  It wasn’t my fault that your brother murdered his wife.  I must see your mother for ten minutes.  I bring a last message from her son.”

“You have been to prison!” she cried.  “You dare look my brother in the face!”

“Just as easily as I do his sister.  Am I to see Lady Kingsland, or shall I go as I came, with Sir Everard’s message undelivered?”

“The sight of you will kill her.”

“We must risk that.”

She passed into the room as she spoke.

“Wait here,” she said.  “I must see her quite alone, but it will only be for a few minutes.”

She closed the door and stood alone in the sick lady’s room.

“Is it you, Mildred?  The light is too strong.”

“It is not Mildred, my lady.  It is I.”

“Sybilla Silver!”

No words can describe the look of agony, of terror, of repulsion, that crossed my lady’s face.  She held up both hands with a gesture of loathing and horror.

“Keep off!” she cried.  “You murderess!”

“Yes,” she cried, “that is the word—­murderess!—­for I murdered your daughter-in-law.  You never liked her, you know, Lady Kingsland.  Surely, then, when I stabbed her and threw her into the sea, I did you a good turn.  Lie still, and listen to me.  I have a long story to tell you, beginning with the astrologer’s prediction.”

With fiendish composure Sybilla repeated the story she had told Sir
Everard, while Lady Kingsland lay paralyzed and listened.

The atrocious revelation ended, she looked at her prostrate foe with a diabolical smile.

“My oath is kept; the prediction is fulfilled.  In a few hours the last of the Kingslands dies by the hand of the common hangman.  I have told you all, and I dare you to injure one hair of my head.  Within the hour my journey from England commences.  Search for last year’s snow, for last September’s partridges, and when you find them you may hope to find Sybilla Silver.  Burn the prediction, destroy my grandmother’s portrait and lock of hair, so carefully hidden away for many years.  Their work is done, and my vengeance is complete.  Lady Kingsland, farewell!”