Then for a brief space of time the studio remained deserted, save for the prostrate figure lying motionless upon the couch. A big blue-bottle fly buzzed around the open window, flinging itself at intervals noisily against the glass. From the street without arose the low hum of passing traffic. Otherwise a dull, peaceful silence held sway.

But in the adjoining chamber sat one from whom all peace was far remote. Even as Pallister had darted down the front stairs, Evarne had entered from Langthorne Place and gained the plaster-room. An irresistible force had drawn her back to the vicinity of her lover and her enemy; but still unwilling to make her presence known to them, she had crept softly into the one little room to which access was possible without entering the studio.

As she sat there waiting—waiting for she knew not what—every nerve in her body thrilled painfully. Restless nights and lack of food had rendered her unfitted to cope with the continuous train of cruel, tearing emotions that had fallen to her lot that morning. The gnawing anxiety of the last half-hour had been nigh unendurable. A very few seconds of this further suspense, this acute nerve-strain, and she uttered an audible groan, forced from her lips by both mental and physical distress.

Startled by the sound, she tried to turn her thoughts from the present to all that was most bright in the future.

"So—we are to be married to-morrow. Oh, Geoff, Geoff, my darling!"

But anxiety and apprehension beset her too closely to be avoided. Close upon this blissful reflection followed another.

"Then—after that—not only my dear one's happiness, but my life—my very life—depend upon that vile creature here, to whom nothing is sacred. Am I doing right by Geoff? Oh, if I could only rid myself of these doubts!"

She sighed and twisted her hands together. Then composed herself to thought once more.

"But my mind was fully convinced, my conscience upheld me surely enough until Morris came. Would to Heaven the vessel that brought him to England had sunk to the bottom of the sea, and that he lay silenced forever beneath the waters."

Again she sighed. Again she thought.

"Ah me! If these were but the times when witches reigned, gladly would I sell my very soul to the powers of evil in return for a charm—a spell—to ensure that man's eternal silence."

Under the stress of such desperate desires, she found it impossible to remain quietly seated. Rising, she moved restlessly and without object to and fro from end to end of the little room. Suddenly she noticed that her dress had brushed against the table, and become slightly soiled with plaster. It was but a trifling matter, but as she shook and brushed it clean again, a sudden hot anger burned in her veins.

"It is outrageous!" she said fiercely within herself—"outrageous, that I should be thus forced to hide, with fear and trembling, in back rooms! Oh, how I hate that man! How he degrades me! How he has cursed my life! From the very first hour we met he has dragged me steadily downwards, and now—now—he is going to use his own sin to damn all the remainder of my life!

"Promises—what does that word mean to Morris Kenyon? Did he not promise my father to watch over me—to guard me—and how did he keep his word? And what promises did he not make to me—oh, again and again!—in what tender, earnest tones; and then—liar, liar! Morris talking morality to me! What right has he to do that? What about himself? What injustice, what evil, equals that of a man—middle-aged, wise in the world, strong, clever—using every advantage to win a young girl, and then—then—pretending that, even in his eyes, his own success renders the girl, not himself, infamous for ever?"

She clenched her hands violently. The bright colour that had flooded her cheeks mounted to her temples.

"I hate him—I loathe him! But, Heaven, how I fear him! If he should—oh, if he dares! If he only dares, I'll—I'll...."

In the heat of this sudden but enduring paroxysm of anger she lost the power of further thought. Her throat swelled, and before she could control herself she had given utterance to a series of half-sobbing, half-moaning cries of misery and baffled rage. Frantically she pressed both hands with desperate energy across her lips. She had but little self-control left; only by physical force could she possibly stay those cries of fear and anguish.

Then she stood motionless, glued to the spot by apprehension. Surely the men in the next room must have heard that wild lamentation? She strained her ears for the sound of footsteps. Her breast shook with the convulsive pantings of rage that is forced to subdue itself. Every throb of her heart came as a sharp pang.

No sound—no sound whatsoever. Suddenly she reeled against the table, clutching at it for support. A terrible idea—a conviction—had now assailed her. Morris was doubtless even at this moment telling her secret to his cousin. Ah—she knew! A whispered conversation was going on in that strangely silent studio. Once again she was being cruelly betrayed by that man. This was surely more than flesh and blood could be called upon to endure.

In an instant all the tigress in her nature sprang eager and palpitating to the fore. Without a moment's hesitation she rushed wildly into the passage, and flung open the door of the studio.

On the threshold she stopped short in amazement. Solitude, save for the prostrate form upon the couch.

"Wherever are Geoff and Mr. Hardy and Pallister? Where can they have gone, to leave Morris alone in this manner?"

Even in the midst of her excitement, a plausible reason for the absence of at least one of the trio suggested itself.

"Oh, of course, Geoff had doubtless gone down to Doctors Commons to get that licence."

Then, shaken by a fresh access of indignation:

"And because of this vile creature here it may prove futile—a mere piece of waste paper! Or it may turn out to be really my death-warrant. Oh, my God, I cannot endure to look at him—to be beneath the same roof!"

And then, such are the powers of imagination, that, believing the man who lay before her to be him whom she had such ample cause to fear and hate, she instinctively knit her brows and drew a sharp breath audibly between her teeth, huddling her hands together on her chest with an actual shudder of repulsion.

And verily, even Love's penetration could scarce be blamed for not here discerning the truth. Even had Evarne been told to distinguish between her lover and her enemy under such conditions, the task would have bordered upon the impossible. With face and head completely covered, with hands strangely identical, with height and build so similar, and yet further disguised by an all-concealing painting-blouse, the most loving eye might easily have blundered.

But Evarne did not doubt—did not question. The very last words she had heard spoken in that studio were to the effect that Morris had come on purpose to submit himself to this operation. What room, then, was there for suspicion regarding the identity of this man whose face was concealed with the plaster mask? Upon the first glance she averted her eyes, standing trembling. After a minute of enduring this agony of repulsion she spoke aloud—unconsciously aloud—quite softly to herself. Her voice, though low, was curiously discordant and hoarse, pulsating with the powerful emotions that were so rapidly proving more than she could bear.

"Oh, it's wicked—it's cruel—it's unjust! He will tell everything after I'm married. He will glory in it. I know him. He is a devil incarnate! What have we done, Geoff and I, that we should be tortured here on earth? Oh, what can I do to save us both—what can I do? To be so helpless—to be driven utterly helpless into a corner like this—oh, I can't—I can't endure it! What am I to do? Tell me—tell me! I want help—help of any kind. Is there nothing Here or There can hear and help me?"

Her voice faded away. She stood, turning her head from side to side, looking around wildly. Her brow contracted itself into deeper furrows. In the silence she unconsciously bit at her finger-nails, tearing one down to the quick—yet she felt no pain.

Quite suddenly there awoke in her memory an almost obliterated recollection. Loudly and wrathfully she cried—

"Sekhet—you have failed me—you have forsaken me! I prayed to you once. Now you must answer my prayer, for I invoke you. You are great now as ever. I demand your help—demand it! How can I ensure that man's eternal silence? Tell me—tell me!"

She stood for a moment with trembling forefinger outstretched, indicating the motionless form upon the divan. Did she expect some mystic voice to respond to her appeal? No sound broke the silence, save the fly which hummed and buzzed and flung itself with blind unavailing endeavour against the window-panes.

But into her brain—that poor brain so tortured and goaded by cruel anxiety, by a bitter insult, by a great, passionate love threatened with destruction—sprang the instinctive thought of that primÆval resource:

"Death! Death! Only death can bring eternal silence!"

Swiftly, yet very surely, a strange, unfamiliar influence had enwrapped this rebel against Fate. Who can declare authoritatively what supreme Power behind the Veil she had not summoned in that moment's distraught and reckless invocation? Be that as it may, she became obsessed by one of those all-mighty, dominating impulses that conquer the will, the judgment, even the desire; that crush down previously accepted ideas of right and wrong, forcing a fresh, oft-times dreaded, idea masterfully into a shrinking heart and mind.

And the message that had come to Evarne was terrible—terrific!

"Call Death to your aid! Kill your enemy! Kill him while there is yet time!"

Even through the passion of rage that shook her, she felt a momentary subduing chill of horror. She pressed her hands to either cheek, and with strained features, parted lips and staring, dilated eyes, gazed wildly into vacancy.

But this horrible inspiration was as a white light suddenly illuminating the dense dark path along which she had been groping. She laughed—a low laugh—terrible, for there was no ring of mirth therein.

"It is only justice—justice—justice—justice!" she cried, her voice rising upon every word. "He is the devil's emissary. The world will be well rid of him. It is justice—justice—justice!"

She had no more consecutive thoughts, no more reflection, no more hesitation. But one word rang in her mind. Justice! Justice! Justice! She rushed across the room with wild haste, and seized upon Andromache's golden fetter that lay upon a chair. With anger, fiery indignation and hatred, terror and mad love raging within her brain, all other emotions were effectively excluded. Pity, caution, lawfulness, fear of consequences—none of these found any place within her spirit in that dreadful hour. If the souls of the dead can verily watch over those they loved in life, broken indeed must be their heavenly peace and happiness. Rather they must be oft-times in hell.

Softly she fastened one fetter around a strong portion of the openwork carved wooden back of the couch; then, without a moment's warning, the handcuff at the other end of the chain was snapped round the nearest wrist of the prostrate figure. Futile was the immediate startled effort of the death-doomed man to rise. In an instant Evarne had dragged away those two quills through which was drawn the breath of life, and had pressed the still slightly unset plaster over the tiny holes. Then sinking on her knees, she seized her victim's remaining arm, clutching it to her breast with a desperate vigour.

Her eyes were convulsively shut, her lips parted over clenched teeth, as for what seemed an interminable period she was flung to and fro by the frenzied struggles of the strong arm she held captive. But gradually her task grew easier. Very soon that dire deed had taken its place amid the record of things done.

Cautiously she slackened her grasp. The arm, released, drooped heavily downwards from its shoulder, the hand resting inertly upon the floor. Evarne rose to her feet. Unfastening both ends of the golden fetter, she flung it back upon the chair, then left the studio without another glance at the twisted, distorted form of that dead man whose lips would speak no more words, either of devotion or of malice.

Deliberately she washed the plaster from her fingers. Her glance was firm and high, her bearing resolute and undaunted. Yet, as she dried her hands, she suddenly paused, and, leaning heavily on the edge of the little sink, uttered a long, trembling sigh such as can well up only from a cruelly over-burdened heart—a low, piteous moan—a stifled wail of despair.

"Oh, Geoff, Geoff! What am I? What have I become for your sake?"

She went out again into Langthorne Place and walked away. Only about five minutes had passed since she trod that pavement before, yet now...? Her pulses throbbed wildly, but she was assailed by no regret, no trace of self-reproach. She was appalled by, yet exalted in, her desperate deed. She was triumphant. She had conquered!

Jack, hastily returning, almost collided with Pallister, who issued from the side-street.

"So we've lost your unique 'Belle Dame,' worse luck to us! And a precious couple we must look out here, with no hats, and smeared painting-blouses and...."

But the remaining words died away at the sight of Jack's expression of undisguised alarm.

"Pallister! You surely haven't left Geoff alone! How infamous! Oh, how could you?"

Without waiting for any answer he darted across the road and ran with all speed for the studio.

"It doesn't matter," declared Pallister, somewhat subdued, hurrying after him. "He's all right. What's the trouble?"

"Oh, don't speak to me! How could you leave him?" was the sole response.

"Well, you seem to forget you did it yourself, if it's such a crime," Pallister replied tartly.

"More blame to me! But I left him in your charge; you left him alone—surely that makes all the difference. Good gracious, though—whatever possessed me? You're as irresponsible as a child, and I knew it—I knew it!"

He turned into the garden, and in a minute was bounding upstairs, closely followed by the indignant Pallister.

A quarter of an hour later, Evarne, pale yet supremely beautiful in her blush-rose gown, in her turn mounted the stairs. As she came in sight of the front door of the flat she saw that it stood wide open. From it was wafted faintly a piteous sound of sobbing and wailing.

"I suppose some will mourn Morris. I did not remember that," she reflected, as she entered and closed the front door behind her. Then, making her way across the hall to the studio, she went in, inquiring in splendidly feigned surprise and alarm, "What is the matter? What has happened?"

Poor Pallister was lying prostrate on the floor near the window, his hands, flung over his head, convulsively grasping great masses of fur that he had torn from the bearskin rug by which he lay. His whole body was writhing beneath choking, rending sobs. From him, Evarne slowly turned her gaze on Jack, who was seated near the couch. He, too, was shaking violently from head to foot; but as regards fixity of expression, hue and voluntary action, he might have been a figure of despair cut from marble.

A sudden pain darted through Evarne's brow. Unnerved by the display of such unexpected and unrestrained emotion, she was forced to lean against the side of the doorway for support, while her white face grew paler still.

"What—oh, I—what?"

None responded to her incoherent words. A cold chill encircled her. In the hot studio she shivered as in wintry weather.

"What has happened to Lord Winborough? Oh—where's? I want him quickly. I must see him, I tell you. Where is he?"

Jack rose from his chair.

"Go away—go away!" he breathed. "I—I can't—you mustn't know. Go away!"

Evarne was fast losing her forced calmness. She was assailed by a desperate longing to gain new courage from the ever-tender eyes of the man who loved her.

"I will go! I want to! I'm frightened here! But where is Geoff? Tell me, Jack—tell me! Send for him!"

"Geoff! Geoff!" wailed Pallister.

Evarne gave a violent start, and without moving from the doorway against which she was leaning, she bent her body forward in Pallister's direction.

"Why do you also call for him?" she queried.

The only response was a farther lament.

"Geoff, come back! Oh, Geoff, how could I leave you?"

Still bending forward, she swayed round towards Jack. Then her reluctant glance wandered from him to the form upon the couch. The mask had been removed, exposing a terrible face beneath, distorted somewhat, disfigured with fearsome livid patches and blue swollen lips. Around the mouth and nose clung mucus froth.

Evarne choked, struggling with sickness; but suddenly she sprang forward and seized Jack by the shoulders with unnatural strength.

"If you don't tell me where Geoff is, I'll—I'll——"

The menacing tones ceased abruptly, as Jack put out his shaking hands and grasped her wrists.

"I see you must be told. Well, then—this is it! He took his cousin's place, Evarne, and we—we left him alone—and—and something happened!"

For one long minute absolute silence reigned within the room. Pallister ceased sobbing and held his breath. Evarne did not speak, but stared at Jack with unwinking gaze. He saw a fearsome change steal over her face. Every feature seemed to alter, to be transformed under his very eyes, becoming unrecognisable—horrible! Without warning, she pushed him violently away, and with a few rapid steps was by the side of the dead man. She laid her hand upon the fair hair.

"So it is you I have killed, Geoff!" she said, quietly enough.

"God in Heaven, what?" shouted Jack at the top of his voice.

Evarne did not speak, but suddenly plunging her hands through her damp hair she began to scream—wild, piercing shrieks that chilled the blood of those who heard. Nothing could stay her—until her voice gave way. Still she screamed on spasmodically, producing merely horrible and discordant sounds.

Loud shouts arose from the street. A policeman's shrill whistle blew frantically again and again.

And then Evarne commenced to laugh, a hoarse, derisive gurgle.

"Do you hear that laughter?" she cried huskily. "It is Morris Kenyon. It is funny for him, isn't it? And it's—yes—I see—that cat-faced goddess—Sekhet! So you all think the game is played out, do you? We'll see."

She clasped her arms around the dead form, pressing it tightly to her breast. She laid her cheek to Geoff's, and so rose with her white, distorted face besmeared and sullied.

Now loud continuous blows were resounding on the outer door. The electric bell rang forth unintermittently.

With swaying steps Evarne crossed the room. Pallister instinctively shrank back as the terrible spectacle advanced in his direction. At this a pair of bloodshot eyes were turned upon him, while a strained voice whispered calmly enough—

"Avoid Sekhet—tell everyone what I said. Never, never love too much. It is always dreadful in some way—always! Sooner or later—always! I must go now and tell Geoff everything myself."

Then, ere they could realise what was next to happen, she had put one knee on the window-sill and flung up her arms wildly. Instinctively both men rushed forward, but, happily, too late!

In another instant a broken mass lay peacefully unconscious forever upon the green bosom of Earth—our Mother.