He came towards her quietly, with a smile upon his pale lips.

"Your master, my beloved, and yet your slave," he said, holding out his arms, and then stopped suddenly and reeled against a chair, as she rushed to the window, flung it open, and vanished from his sight.

Still leaning over the chair, struggling for breath, he heard the muffled sound of something falling in the garden below, and knew that she had thrown herself from the balcony. He felt a torrent of blood welling up in his throat and choking him, as he staggered to the open window, and on to the light iron balcony, and, looking down through the darkness, he saw the white figure lying in the long grass by the side of a stone fountain, fifteen feet below.

The house was built on the steep slope of the hill, and the garden at the back was not more than fifteen feet below the rooms on the second floor.

He had scarcely strength to drag himself back into the room, and to the bell, and then he sank into one of the mammoth sixteenth-century chairs, and let his head fall back against the tapestried cushion.

Rage, disappointment, humiliation, had been in his mind as he saw his prey escape him; but now there was but one passion left in him, the fierce love of life. He knew that he was dying. This bright red stream which was pouring from his lips was life-life ebbing momently-the life he loved, the life in which he had triumphed over weaker lives, had always felt himself the stronger in every contest of human force. It was going from him: and when again should he taste the joy of living-how win his way back to the earth he loved? The machine was broken.

Some one knocked at the door. He could not open it. Or, if he could, what could mortal aid do for him? The machine was broken. He knew that this was the end.

He heard people trying to open the door, then voices, then some one came to the other door, and tried it, the door he had locked that afternoon when he had engaged the rooms, and made his survey of the bower he had chosen for his caged bird. He had heard of this mountain village from the Italian courier whom he had employed to discover

Arden's whereabouts in Switzerland, and report his movements; a man of many languages, and no prejudices. And from this retreat he meant to convey his captive to Genoa-a willing captive, he hoped-and thence to far-off seas, beyond the reach of social laws, or a husband's revenge; far off to loveliest lands under torrid skies, and that semi-savage life for which he had longed with a fervid desire, while hemmed round with the restraints of modern civilization; the life of the savage and the brute, for whom to exist means to enjoy, whose vision of life knows neither past nor future.

XXIX.

THE white walls of Locco were shining in the morning sun, and the church bells were ringing for mass, when Arden alighted in front of the old-world palace that was now an inn. He looked a spectral figure in the vivid light, his haggard face grey with anguish. He had been driving to and fro since ten o'clock on the previous night, when he arrived at Damezzo, where he was received as if he had been a ghost, and was told of the supposed accident, and of his wife's hurried departure for an inn near the frontier, with Lord St. Just. Man and maid had followed half an hour later, by their mistress's order.

Frantic with anxiety, Arden started in pursuit, as soon as fresh horses could be got for him; but it was a wild pursuit, since he had no clue to the way St. Just's carriage had gone. The innkeeper declared it had taken the Chiavenna road; but Arden had met only one carriage, which might have been the one containing his servants. He had not noticed the occupants, as it drove past him in the doubtful light.

He went to the station at Chiavenna, after having made inquiries for newly arrived travellers, at two hotels. There was a train that left after midnight, and he waited till that was gone; since it was possible that St. Just might have tricked a distracted wife into going farther than he had urged her at first. With that story of her husband's danger, he might take her where he chose. In her agitation and distress she might scarcely know where she was being taken. The midnight train left; but there was no sign of the travellers he was watching for. He started on the way back, after changing horses, but it was a slower and longer journey, and he was tortured by the knowledge of his helplessness. What next could he do, and what next, and what next?

His wife was in the power of a murderer; fiend, or madman, he knew not which. A homicidal lunatic, the victim of hereditary mania; or the reincarnation of the wickedest human being he had ever known. Whichever view he chose to take of the man St. Just, the knowledge that his wife was in that man's power was equally appalling.

There were no tidings of his wife at Damezzo. The two servants had come back, after their ineffectual search for the inn near the frontier, where they had been told their master would be found. The false information, and their mistress's hurried departure with St. Just, had awakened suspicion; and the valet had spent the early morning hours going about the neighbourhood, in the hope of getting on the track of the carriage that had spirited away his master's wife. There was the possibility of error rather than villainy; but while the woman inclined to think there had been a mistake in the direction that her mistress had given her, the man believed the worst, and devoted himself with unflagging energy to the search for information.

The people of Damezzo were early risers, whose day began soon after the sun appeared above the edge of the eastern hills, a golden light behind the dark line of fir trees, the white homesteads, and cattle-sheds. From one of this industrious race the valet heard of an empty landau that had been seen returning from Locco at daybreak; and the description of the carriage, with a grey and a brown horse, tallied with that in which the man had seen his mistress leave the hotel. The valet now thought it possible that there had been a mistake on his mistress's part as to the place of the accident; and that his master was lying at Locco.

He went back to the hotel, and met Arden in the hall; so that last possibility of honest dealing on St. Just's part was at an end. He told his master what he had heard; and a quarter of an hour later Arden was on his way to Locco behind another pair of horses.

At the inn at Locco all was confusion and terror. The unknown traveller of yesterday, a great gentleman who had engaged the whole of the noble floor for himself and his lady, was quite dead; and the lady, the beautiful young wife, was lying unconscious, and in peril of death, having

fallen, the good God alone knew wherefore, from the balcony of the saloon.

"By the merciful interposition of our blessed Lady, the fall had not been fatal," the innkeeper said piously. "The sweet young English lady was still living."

"Was the signor a relation-perhaps the honourable lady's brother?" suggested the chambermaid.

"I am her husband."

"Heavens! And the gentleman who brought her here, and who spoke of her as his wife

"Was an unspeakable villain. Is it true that he is dead?"

"True as the sky above us. He had not been in this house ten minutes; the saloon bell rang violently-we have no electric bells here; it is a loud bell that can be heard all over the house-we rushed to answer it, for it had the sound of danger. We found both doors lockedthe door on the landing, and the door in the bedroom where he now lies. All the rooms on the noble floor have doors of communication. We heard strange sounds within -sounds of choking-deep groans; and we broke open the door. He was lying in the armchair. His head had fallen across the arm, his hands were grasping the wood-work convulsively, as in the last struggle; the blood was bubbling from his lips, but slower and slower. His eyes were wide open-glassy, horrible. Ah, signor, it will be long before we forget that sight. All has been done that was needful. I have taken care of that. I sent for the mayor last night. The signor had a letter-case in his pocket, stuffed with banknotes, which has been put in a sealed envelope. Everything has been done in proper order. They will bury him this night, in our little cemetery, unless you have the body removed before the evening."

"Let him lie where his last crime brought him. He is lucky to have escaped a worse fate. And now take me to my wife."

"La signora is in the room at the other end of the noble floor," said the landlord, and led the way to a spacious chamber, which looked like a state bedroom in the castle of Otranto, a panelled room, of a sombre magnificence, and with a castellated ebony and alabaster bedstead of the