At last Elizabeth rose, moved noiselessly across the chamber, while Elsie raised her head to look.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"You know," Elizabeth answered.

"You won't—you can't! Oh, wait—wait!"

"And to-morrow have the whole household look on while the work is more thoroughly done!"

"Is there no other way?"

"None. This is the last hope; I shall try it."

There was no elation in her voice at the danger she had escaped, no hope rising up now that she might go through her task in safety, no dread either of what she had to do, only stern determination, the chill of utter despair, ready to struggle but not to hope. She wrapped a shawl about her without the slightest appearance of haste, and stood still a little longer, more like a marble statue endowed with the power of motion than a breathing, living creature.

"Are you going?" called Elsie.

"Yes; I shall not be long—not long."

But Elsie rushed after her and caught her in her arms.

"Every moment is worth a whole life," cried Elizabeth. "Let me go!"

She forced the girl to release her hold, and with one feeble wail Elsie fell senseless to the floor.

"Better so," muttered Elizabeth, "better so!"

The excitement she was laboring under gave this woman new strength. She raised the insensible girl, carried her through the vacant chamber, and laid her on the bed in her own room. She drew the bedclothes over her inanimate form and turned away.

"Now for the end," she murmured, "the bitter, bitter end."

She went back to her own room, closing the doors after her, then, without further delay, passed down the private staircase which led to the little entry off the library.

Once on the stairs she paused to listen, but there was no sound, and she hurried on noiseless as a spirit. One of the shutters was ajar, admitting a few gleams of light, by which she could see to unbolt the door.

She was out in the air at last; the first step was taken in safety—in her turn she flew towards the cypress tree. She was under its shadow, the branches writhed and moaned like living things, the moon shot in and out of the gathering clouds, and cast a flickering, uncertain light about that was more terrible than the deepest gloom.

As she stood in the depth of the shadows, a man came out from the thick darkness that lay under a neighboring clump of white pines, and drew close to her.

"I have been here some time," he whispered. "Everything is ready out yonder—rather rough work for a gentleman, but take it as a proof how ready I am to help you, even after all the money is paid in. But do you know that Mellen has been here?"

"I saw him—I know it; we have no time!"

"Fortunately, he will know why the earth is broken up, having done it with his own hands," said the man, with a suppressed laugh, that made Elizabeth shudder. "Better still, he has left the spade—threw it down in angry disappointment. That is fortunate, for mine was partly disabled out yonder: now show me the exact spot."

She had no need to search, only too well she knew the place. Night and day for weeks the dread spot had been with her, in every dream she had watched men digging, digging—digging with frantic haste; and, as in her dreams, all strength seemed to fail, and some unseen power to hold her back, so now, in that frightful reality, her arms fell half paralyzed, and she could not lift her hand to point out the spot.

To and fro the branches swayed above her head, beating themselves about, moaning like evil voices. The wind swept up chill and warningly.

Such a terrible face it was that confronted the man—such a pale terrified face, lighted up with those agonized eyes, that seemed to grow large and wild in the moonlight.

The man stood before her, leaning on his spade, waiting.

"It is there just in that line of moonlight," she said at last, pointing downward with her finger.

The man lifted the spade with all his fierce might, and struck it deep into the earth, which the cold nights had frozen, until it gave out a sharp ringing sound.

Elizabeth held her breath; what if that sound had reached the house!

Another firm downward thrust of the spade was scarcely heard. The crust was broken, the earth grew soft and yielding—the wretched woman remembered how carefully it had been packed down over the spot. For nights after, the hollow sound of the spade had rung in her ears, and nothing could dull its echo.

A horrible fear was coming over her, a supernatural, ghostly dread, that made her flesh creep and the hair rise on her temples.

Spadeful after spadeful of earth was thrown out, but still the bottom was not reached. She had not thought it deep—so deep. If it should be empty—if nothing was there!

What if the place had been searched before, if the least possibility of removing that terrible evidence was gone beyond her power!

The idea was too maddening, and she shook off the nightmare-like oppression which had been upon her, as the spade suddenly struck some substance harder than the earth, and rang out with a dull, heavy sound.

For one instant she started back. She was alone in the night, alone with that man, who uttered an exclamation of delight that his task was so near done. Elizabeth drew back. She dared not even peer into the cavity. It was choked up with shadows, and their blackness seemed to warn her off.

The mighty strength that had carried this woman forward till now, left her. The cold pierced her through and through; still she found strength to speak, and implored the man to complete his work. He took up the spade again, dropped it into the impalpable darkness of the hole and pressed it down, leaning his whole weight upon it.

She shivered violently now. A sharp pain ran through her chest, as if she, too, had been putting forth some great physical energy. Shadows from the disturbed cypress boughs were falling all about her, breaking and forming again in a thousand fantastic movements. But one shadow, dark, solid and still, fell across a gleam of moonlight at her feet, freezing her to the heart. She looked slowly up and saw her husband.