It was over—done! He was free! He reeled against the bedpost and tried to collect himself—to check the terrible laughter that rose to his lips. He was free at last.

His curious excitement came to an end at last, and he roused himself. He looked at the clock, and found that it was quite an hour since—since that. He turned his eyes then on his wife's face and saw it was quite calm. There was nothing to wonder at— no sign of a struggle. There had been very little struggle indeed, life was so low within her. He assured himself that she looked natural enough, and touched the bedclothes here and there. Then he rang the bell violently, thrusting the wet handkerchief into the inside pocket of his coat as he did so; and presently the nurses came to the door, stepping softly, delicately, yet with fear on their faces. To them he told the sad news. He feared he had been a little drowsy, and she—his voice broke—must have passed away in her sleep. His manner was perfect, and they were all impressed by it, especially the nurse whom he had dismissed some hours ago, telling her he would sit up with the patient. She said afterwards that he looked heart-broken, but so calm—the calmness of despair, no doubt.

They went with him to the bed, and bent over the silent form. There was no breath coming now from the parted lips; the features looked rigid. The face was placid, stern, with that Sphinx-like expression on it that the dead so often wear.

Darkham himself lifted the arms—oh, so tenderly!—and crossed them on her breast. Tears rose to the nurses' eyes. How he had loved her!

"Go!" he said to them in a broken voice. "I shall watch here."

They heard him lock the door after them, and felt sad with pity at the thought of the lonely vigil the broken-hearted husband was about to keep in the dim death-chamber.

He listened intently to the sound of their departing footsteps, then cautiously opened a second door that led into an adjoining room. It was a sort of dressing-room, that had been used by his wife as a place for lumber of all sorts. It was untidy, but it was large, and sitting at the far end of it one might feel far away from the bedroom outside. He struck a match with a cautious hand—a hand that it gave him a sensation of admiration to see did not tremble, and lit a candle. This he placed on the floor behind a brass-bound trunk of gigantic size that effectually hid its rays from any one who might be outside the windows to-night.

He sat down, prepared to watch for the dawn. Well, it came early, anyway. He seated himself on a box, and began to arrange his plans. There was nothing to condemn him anywhere. She had been so far gone already that the slight stoppage of her breath that he had occasioned had made no effect upon her. Her face was quite calm and placid; and he could quote the words of Bland and Dillwyn at any moment. Besides, why should he be suspected? Who was there to suspect him?

As for himself—his manner—he could rely upon that. He held up his hand before him, and noticed boastingly that it was firm, and strong, and steady. After all, what had he done? Merely hastened the departure of a life—not taken it. Why, if he had taken it years ago, who could blame him? That devil, thwarting his every movement, destroying his life, killing him soul and body—of what use was she to the world? A mere clod, swelling the list of those who dam the flow of the tide that leads to all light and progress. Why, it was a righteous deed!

His head was resting against a wardrobe. His eyes closed. His thoughts were brilliant to-night; they flew here and there. The candle was burning dimly, and before he knew it he had lost consciousness—he was asleep.

He slept, and dreamt he was in hell! He struggled madly, and the struggle with an over-whelming mass of fiends, who were dragging him towards a caldron full of pitch, roused him. The madness, indeed, lasted only a few minutes, and left him wide awake. He woke with a violent start, and looked hurriedly around him. All was still.

He sat up. A sensation of damp upon his chest troubled him. He thrust his hand into his inner pocket, and drew out—the handkerchief!

With a curse he flung it from him—far as he could throw it— gazing at it with wide, fascinated eyes. For the moment he was afraid of it; then sense returned to him, and all his old strength, and he was himself again. He picked up the handkerchief deliberately, and placed it once more in his pocket. A grim smile at his own folly lit his dark features.

Even as he so sat smiling at his past weakness, a strange sound smote upon his ear. It was the sound of some heavy body falling on the ground. Seemingly it came from the next room—from the room where the dead body lay. He rose and went quietly to the door of it, and stood there listening. And as he listened a low crooning smote upon his ear. How well he knew it!

The boy! How had he come there, with all the doors locked? He now went quickly forward, through the door and into the room beyond. There he stood still, as if frozen into stone. An awful sight awaited him!

....

The bed he had left so decorously arranged was now in frightful disorder. The clothes were flung here and there, and on the floor, half out of the bed and half in it, lay—his wife.

Her arms were flung out, and her head was lying on one arm, the scanty gray locks parted, and showing bald patches in this place and that. The face was almost hidden, but he could see the nose and a little blood coming from it.

As he stood gazing at it, a movement on his right attracted him. It came from behind the curtains—a squat, unwieldy form, with working mouth and eyes on fire. He knew it. It was his—son!

The poor creature drew closer and closer by degrees to the form upon the floor, as if frightened, and not understanding. When had he ever before seen his mother like this? But as he came up to her he touched her, and, getting no response, he touched her again, and again, and finally, as if some light had dawned upon his darkened mind, he caught her, and lifted her head upon his knees, and began to lavish on her a whole world of endearments. Standing behind the bed-curtains, as he had stood for hours, in a dull, faithful determination to be near her, he had seen her fall out of bed, and then surprise and horror had produced that crooning noise that Darkham had heard. He now bent his face to hers, and with uncouth gestures tried to wipe away the blood that was already congealing round the nostrils.

She had probably come to life again for some brief moments, and fought and gasped for breath, and then by a last mighty effort had flung herself on the side of the bed.

With so much strength she must have recovered had he not hastened her death with that wet rag! He faced that thought with the strong callousness he had shown all through.

But the boy? He looked upon the wretched object crouched upon the floor, and advanced towards him. Taking him by the shoulder, he shook him sharply. The boy looked up with vacant eyes, and Darkham motioned him imperiously to move aside. At any moment some one might come to the door, and though it was locked, still, to refuse admission—-

Edwy, trained to fear him, rose sullenly, and once more retreated into the shadow of the curtains, and, squatting down upon the ground, sat gibbering, his eyes always on the corpse.

Darkham, stooping, lifted his wife. With some fear he gazed upon her. But she was now dead indeed. He laid her back upon the bed and felt her heart. It was still. Once again he closed the eyes, sponged the slight bloodstains from her face, and rearranged the bed-clothes. Again he folded the arms across her breast in the exact position in which they had been when the nurses saw her last. The minutest detail he thought of and followed out.

The slight distortion of the features, now visible, would not be noticed or treated seriously. And an hour or two, besides, would probably do away with it. An hour after death makes the dead face so different, even when death has been hard.

It was all finished now, and the boy only remained to be got rid of; he could not stay here.

Much as Darkham disliked being left alone in this terrible room, still he disliked more the companionship of this loathsome idiot. There was always the thought, too, that he knew—had seen! For the first time he felt thankful that his only child had been born deaf and dumb, and a fool. If only he had been born blind as well!

He unlocked the door softly, and motioned to his son to go. The idiot shook his head. He understood what his father meant, but, though accustomed to obey him, he now felt as if to leave the room that held his mother—a mother so strange, so changed, but still his mother—was impossible to him. She might wake and want him.

Darkham imperiously, by a second gesture, ordered him to leave the room, and, seeing he did not move, went toward him.

As he advanced, the idiot rose. A low howl broke from him. Suddenly, as if with a mad desire for vengeance, he flung himself upon his father and tore and wrestled with him savagely. It was the anger of an enraged brute; the boy's nails seemed to tear into Darkham's flesh.

The struggle, however, lasted only for a minute or two. With a mighty effort, Darkham wrenched himself free, and the idiot, his hands working convulsively, dashed from the room.