Still grasping the bloody weapon, Floy looked down in terror at the body of her bleeding victim.

“Oh-h-h! I have killed the mean coward, but—I couldn’t help it—I had to do it!” she exclaimed, bursting into hysterical sobs.

“Bravo, miss, that was a brave deed! He deserved death; but if you had waited a minute longer, I would have killed him for you myself!” exclaimed an admiring voice, and a man who had been watching and listening in the corridor outside came hastily into the room.

He was a stranger to Floy, but you and I, reader, know him as the clever detective who had been searching for our heroine for several weeks.

Once he had decided that he would give up the hopeless quest, but his patron’s anxiety spurred him on to another effort.

He returned to Mount Vernon, and when he heard the story of Floy’s spirit having been seen abroad on several nights, he conceived a suspicion that the missing girl might be hidden at Suicide Place, in spite of her assertion that she would never venture near the house again.

Having no fear of ghosts, and laughing to himself at the idea of the place being haunted, he determined to search it for Floy.

He went upon the quest the same evening that Otho did, and arriving some time later, went carefully round the house till he saw some gleams of light shining through the shutters.

“She is there!” he thought, exultantly, and went in through a door that Otho had carelessly left open.

Without taking the trouble to explore the lower regions, he made his way to the second story, following the location of the light he had detected.

When his stealthy steps reached the upper corridor he saw, to his amazement, a man stealing along in front of him, guided by a dark lantern.

The next moment he recognized him as Otho Maury, whose steps he had once dogged in the hope of discovering Floy.

“Aha! I was right after all; he is her lover. I will watch and see what comes of this!” he cried to himself, keeping at a safe distance behind Otho.

By this means he became an excited spectator of the tragic scene that followed, and learned how deeply Floy feared and dreaded her villainous persecutor.

He was springing into the room to her assistance, when the frantic thrust of her little dagger struck Maury at random in the neck, and stretched him bleeding at her feet.

At her sobs of terror and remorse—for it was awful to the gentle, white-souled girl to realize that she had taken life, even in self-defense—he cried, cheerily:

“Bravo, miss! that was a brave deed. He deserved death; but if you had waited a minute longer, I would have killed him for you myself.”

Floy shrunk against the window, with a low cry of alarm, as she beheld this new intruder.

“Oh, God, why am I so bitterly persecuted?”

“I beg you not to be afraid of me, Miss Fane. I am your friend,” exclaimed the detective, kindly.

His voice sounded so honest and kindly that Floy said, faintly:

“Who are you? How came you here, sir?”

“I am Floyd Landon, a detective, miss; and I came here to search for you, but not with any evil intent, be sure; for I was employed by a true friend of yours, who will be delighted when I take you to her house.”

Floy summoned courage to look at him, and saw that he was a good-looking, middle-aged person, with the frank, open face an honest countryman. No one would have suspected that he was one of the most successful detectives in the city of New York.

His heart was as kind as his face, too, and it was touched by the misery of the girl who was so remorseful over having destroyed a life.

Her beauty astonished him also, even though Mrs. Beresford’s flattering description had prepared him in some measure for Floy’s charms.

“A friend of mine!” she cried, in surprise. “Oh then it must have been Mrs. Banks. I think she is the only true friend I have in the world.”

“No, it is not Mrs. Banks; it is another woman in the great city of New York.”

“Not Mrs. Horton; she is no friend of mine!” cried Floy, who suspected the woman of having sent Otho Maury to her room that evening.

“Not Mrs. Horton,” he replied, and bent down to look at Otho.

“His heart beats faintly; you have not killed him, miss—more’s the pity, for he’s only a human serpent,” he added, under his breath.

“He’s alive, you say? Oh, how glad I am! I did not want his death on my soul, though I hate and fear him!” cried Floy.

“Give me some water and a towel, miss, and I’ll stanch the blood and see how bad the wound is,” added the detective.

She brought the desired things, and as he went to work, he said:

“I was educated for a surgeon, so I know how to fix him all right. It’s only a superficial wound through the side of his neck, and I can sew it up all right before he comes to himself.”

He brought out a tiny surgical-case from his coat-pocket and sewed up the cut, after which he bandaged it nicely.

“Oh, how fortunate that you had those things along!” cried Floy, admiringly.

“Yes; they often come in handy in a detective’s business as well as a surgeon’s,” smiled Floyd Landon. “So! he will do nicely, I think, and presently he will revive. Before then we must be out of the way.”