Now he steps forward again, and, mounting the last flight of stairs, opens the fatal door and looks into the room.  Even now it occurs to him how unpleasant might be the consequences should the door close and the secret lock fasten him in against his will.  He pushes the door well open, and holds it so, and then tries whether it can fall to again of its own accord, and so make a prisoner of him.

No; it stands quite open, immovable apparently, and so, convinced that he is safe enough, he commences his search.  Then, swift as lightning, a form darts from its concealed position, rushes up the stone staircase, and, stealthily creeping still nearer, glances into the room.

Sir Adrian’s back is turned; he is stooping, looking in every corner for the missing prize.  He sees nothing, hears nothing, though a treacherous form crouching on the threshold is making ready to seal his doom.

Arthur Dynecourt, putting forth his hand, which neither trembles nor falters on its deadly mission, silently lays hold of the door, and, drawing it toward him, the secret lock clicks sharply, and separates his victim from the world!

Stealthily even now—­his evil deed accomplished—­Arthur Dynecourt retreats down the stairs, and never indeed relaxes his speed until at length he stands panting, but relentless, in the servants’ corridor again.

Remorse he knows not.  But a certain sense of fear holds him irresolute, making his limbs tremble and bringing out cold dews upon his brow.  His rival is safely secured, out of all harm’s way as far as he is concerned.  No human being saw him go to the ill-fated tower; no human voice heard him declare his intention of searching it for the missing trinket.  He—­Arthur—­had been careful before parting from him to express his settled belief that Sir Adrian would not go to the haunted chamber, and therefore he feels prepared to defend his case successfully, even should the baronet be lucky enough to find a deliverer.

Yet he is not quite easy in his mind.  Fear of discovery, fear of Sir Adrian’s displeasure, fear of the world, fear of the rope that already seems to dangle in red lines before his eyes render him the veriest coward that walks the earth.  Shall he return and release his prisoner, and treat the whole thing as a joke, and so leave Adrian free to dispense his bounty at the castle, to entertain in his lavish fashion, to secure the woman upon whom he—­Arthur—­has set his heart for his bride?

No; a thousand times no!  A few short days, and all will belong to Arthur Dynecourt.  He will be “Sir Arthur” then, and the bride he covets will be unable to resist the temptations of a title, and the chance of being mistress of the stately old pile that will call him master.  Let Sir Adrian die then in his distant garret alone, despairing, undiscoverable!  For who will think of going to the haunted room in search of him?  Who will even guess that any mission, however important, would lead him to it, without having first mentioned it to some one?  It is a grewsome spot, seldom visited and gladly forgotten; and, indeed, what possibly could there be in its bare walls and its blood-stained floor to attract any one?  No; surely it is the last place to suspect any one would go to without a definite purpose; and what purpose could Sir Adrian have for going there?