“I dare not speak openly,” replies the widow, growing even a shade paler, “because my suspicion is of the barest character, and may be altogether wrong.  Yet there are moments when some hidden instinct within my breast whispers to me that I am on the right track.”

“If so,” murmurs Florence, falling upon her knees before her, “do not hesitate; follow up this instinctive feeling, and who knows but something may come of it!  Dora, do not delay.  Soon, soon—­if not already—­it may be too late.  Alas,” she cries, bursting into bitter tears, “what do I say?  Is it not too late even now?  What hope can there be after six long days, and no tidings?”

“I will do what I can, I am resolved,” declares Dora, rising abruptly to her feet.  “If too late to do any good, it may not be too late to wring the truth from him, and bring the murderer to justice.”

“From him?  From whom—­what murderer?” exclaims Florence, in a voice of horror.  “Dora, what are you saying?”

“Never mind.  Let me go now; and to-night—­this evening let me come to you here again, and tell you the result of what I am now about to do.”

She quits the room as silently as she entered it, and Florence, sinking back in her chair, gives herself up to the excitement and amazement that are overpowering her.  There is something else, too, in her thoughts that is puzzling and perplexing her; in all Dora’s manner there was nothing that would lead her to think she loved Sir Adrian:  there was fear, and a desire for revenge in it, but none of the despair of a loving woman who has lost the man to whom she has given her heart.

Florence is still pondering these things, while Dora, going swiftly down-stairs, turns into the side hall, glancing into library and rooms as she goes along, plainly in search of something or some one.

At last her search is successful; in a small room she finds Arthur Dynecourt apparently reading, as he sits in a large arm-chair, with his eyes fixed intently upon the book in his hand.  Seeing her, he closes the volume, and, throwing it from him, says carelessly: 

“Pshaw—­what contemptible trash they write nowadays!”

“How can you sit here calmly reading,” exclaims Dora vehemently, “when we are all so distressed in mind!  But I forgot”—­with a meaning glance—­“you gain by his death; we do not.”

“No, you lose,” he retorts coolly.  “Though, after all, even had things been different, I can’t say I think you had much chance at any time.”

He smiles insolently at her as he says this.  But she pays no heed either to his words or his smile.  Her whole soul seems wrapped in one thought, and at last she gives expression to it.

“What have you done with him?” she breaks forth, advancing toward him, as though to compel him to give her an answer to the question that has been torturing her for days past.

“With whom?” he asks coldly.  Yet there is a forbidding gleam in his eyes that should have warned her to forbear.