“There is no danger.  Sir Everard is not at home, and will not be before ten o’clock at least.  He is gone to dine at The Grange with his mother; and my lady was to have gone, too, but your message frightened her, and she told him little white lies, and insisted on his going by himself.  And, you silly old stupid, if you had two ideas in your head, you would see that this opportunity of braving his express command, and entering the lion’s den to meet his wife by night and by stealth, is the most glorious opportunity of revenge you could have.  Sir Everard is nearly mad with jealousy and suspicion already.  What will he be when he finds his wife of a month has lied to him to meet you alone and in secret at the Beech Walk?  I tell you, Mr. Parmalee, you will be gloriously revenged!”

“By thunder!” cried the artist, “I never thought of that.  I’ll do it, Sybilla—­I’ll do it, so help me!  Tell my lady I’ll be there right on the minute; and do you take care that confounded baronet finds it out.  I said I’d pay him off for every blow, and I’ll do it, by the Eternal!”

“And strike through her!” hissed Sybilla, with glittering black eyes, “and every blow will go straight through the core of his proud heart.  We’ll torture him, George Parmalee, as man never was tortured before.”

“What a little devil you are, Sybilla!” he said, with lover-like candor.  “I’ve heard tell that you wimmin knock us men into a cocked hat in the way of hating, and I now begin to think it is true.  What has this ’ere baronet done to you, I should admire to know?  You don’t hate him like the old sarpent for nothing.”

“What has he done to me?” repeated Sybilla, with a strange, slow smile.  “That is easily told.  He gave me a home when I was homeless; he was my friend when I was friendless.  I have broken his bread and drunk of his cup, and slept under his roof, and—­I hate him, I hate him, I hate him!”

Mr. Parmalee took out his cigar and stared at her in horror.

“I tell you what it is, Miss Silver,” he said, “I don’t like this sort of thing—­I don’t, by George!  I ain’t surprised at a person hating a person, because I hate him myself; but for a young woman that is going to be my wife to cut up like this here, and swear everlasting vengeance—­well, I don’t like it.  You see, wild cats ain’t the most comfortable sort of pets a man can have in his house, and how do I know but it may be my turn next?”

“You precious old stupid!  As if I could hate you, if I tried.  No, no, George; you may trust Sybilla.  The wild cat will sheathe her claws in triple folds of velvet for you.”

“Humph!” said Mr. Parmalee; “but the claws will still be there.  However, I ain’t a-going to quarrel with you about it.  I like a spunky woman, and I hate him.  I’ll meet my lady to-night, and you see that my lady’s husband finds it out.”

“Until then,” responded Sybilla, folding her mantle closer about her, “remember the hour—­eight sharp—­and don’t keep her waiting.  Before he sleeps to-night the proudest baronet in the realm shall know why his wife deliberately deceived him to meet a strange man by night and by stealth in the park, where her husband had ordered him never to set foot again.”