“Yes,” I said; “I’ve got a revolver, and a little dagger.”

“Who knows what may happen?  Give me one of them—­give me the dagger, if you like.”

I passed it to him in the darkness.  Astounding as it may seem, I am prepared solemnly to assert that at that moment I had forgotten the history of the dagger, and Sir Cyril’s connection with it.

I was just going to ask of what use weapons could be, situated as we were, when I saw Deschamps with a sudden movement jump up from her bed, her eyes blazing.  With an involuntary cry in my throat I hammered the glass in front of us with the butt of my revolver, but it was at least an inch thick, and did not even splinter.  Sir Cyril sprang from the ledge instantly.  Meanwhile Rosa, the change of whose features showed that she divined the shameful trick played upon her, stood up, half-indignant, half-terrified.  Deschamps was no more dying than I was; her eyes burned with the lust of homicide, and with uplifted twitching hands she advanced like a tiger, and Rosa retreated before her to the middle of the room.

Then there was the click of a spring, and a square of the centre of the floor, with Rosa standing upon it, swiftly descended into the room where we were.  The thing was as startling as a stage illusion; yes, a thousand-fold more startling than any trick I ever saw.  I may state here, what I learnt afterwards, that the room above was originally a dining-room, and the arrangement of the trap had been designed to cause a table to disappear and reappear as tables were wont to do at the notorious banquets of King Louis in the Petit Trianon.  The glass observatory enabled the kitchen attendants to watch the progress of the meals.  Sir Cyril knew of the contrivance, and, rushing to the upright pillar, had worked it most opportunely.

The kitchen, as I may now call it, was illuminated with light from the room above.  I hastened to Rosa, who on seeing Sir Cyril and myself gave a little cry, and fell forward fainting.  She was a brave girl, but one may have too many astonishments.  I caught her, and laid her gently on the floor.  Meanwhile Deschamps (the dying Deschamps!) stood on the edge of the upper floor, stamping and shouting in a high fever of foiled revenge.  She was mad.  When I say that she was mad, I mean that she was merely and simply insane.  I could perceive it instantly, and I foresaw that we should have trouble with her.

Without the slightest warning, she jumped down into the midst of us.  The distance was a good ten feet, but with a lunatic’s luck she did not hurt herself.  She faced Sir Cyril, shaking in every limb with passion, and he, calm, determined, unhurried, raised his dagger to defend himself against this terrible lioness should the need arise.

But as he lifted the weapon his eye fell on it; he saw what it was; he had not observed it before, since we had been in darkness.  And as he looked his composure seemed to desert him.  He paled, and his hand trembled and hung loosely.  The mad woman, seizing her chance, snatched the dagger from him, and like a flash of lightning drove it into his left breast.  Sir Cyril sank down, the dagger sticking out from his light overcoat.