She rises to her feet and grows deadly pale as she says this, as though the sensation of fear she has been describing has come to her again.

“You saw—?” prompts Dora, rising too, and trembling violently, as though in expectation of some fatal tidings.

“I saw the door of the room that leads to the haunted chamber slowly move.  It opened; the door that has been locked for nearly fifty years, and that has filled the breasts of all the servants here with terror and dismay, was cautiously thrown open!  A scream rose to my lips, but I was either too terrified to give utterance to it, or else some strong determination to know what would follow restrained me, and I stood silent, like one turned into stone.  I had instinctively moved back a step or two, and was now completely hidden from sight, though I could see all that was passing in the corridor through a hole in the framework of the screen.  At last a figure came with hesitating footsteps from behind the door into the full glare of the flickering lamp.  I could see him distinctly.  It was—­”

“Arthur Dynecourt!” cries the widow, covering her ghastly face with her hands.

Florence regards her with surprise.

“It was,” she says at last.  “But how did you guess it?”

“I knew it,” cries Dora frantically.  “He has murdered him, he has hidden his body away in that forgotten chamber.  He was gloating over his victim, no doubt, just before you saw him, stealing down from a secret visit to the scene of his crime.”

“Dora,” exclaims Florence, grasping her arm, “if he should not have murdered him after all, if he should only have secured him there, holding him prisoner until he should see his way more clearly to getting rid of him!  If this idea be the correct one, we may yet be in time to save, to rescue him!”

The agitation of the past hours proving now too much for her, Florence bursts into tears and sobs wildly.

“Alas, I dare not believe in any such hope!” says Dora.  “I know that man too well to think him capable of showing any mercy.”

“And yet ‘that man,’ as you call him, you would once have earnestly recommended to me as a husband!” returns Florence, sternly.

“Do not reproach me now,” exclaims Dora; “later on you shall say to me all that you wish, but now moments are precious.”

“You are right.  Something must be done.  Shall I—­shall I speak to Mr. Villiers?”

“I hardly know what to advise”—­distractedly.  “If we give our suspicions publicity, Arthur Dynecourt may even yet find time and opportunity to baffle and disappoint us.  Besides which, we may be wrong.  He may have had nothing to do with it, and—­”

“At that rate, if secrecy is to be our first thought, let you and me go alone in search of Sir Adrian.”

“Alone, and at this hour, to that awful room!” exclaims Dora, recoiling from her.

“Yes, at once”—­firmly—­“without another moment’s delay.”