She closed her eyes, and was soon in a profound sleep. Barkswell sat watching her, the thin face and hollow eyes, and muttered to himself:
"She suffers, poor girl, but I will be merciful. She shall not suffer long."
Then he came to his feet and began pacing the room with measured tread in front of his calmly sleeping wife.
There were many contending emotions in the breast of Andrew Barkswell as he paced the floor in front of his sleeping wife.
If he ever possessed a spark of human sympathy, the past few weeks of his life in Grandon had obliterated the feeling.
One more life stood between him and his goal; that life was even now on the verge of the unknown.
"I might throttle her," he muttered in a half audible tone, as his glittering eyes peered into the quiet face of the slumberer. "No one would be the wiser, and then I would be free to pursue my wooing of the heiress."
He moved a step nearer the sleeping woman. His fingers twitched and turned about, as though itching diabolical work. His breath came hot and hard above the false gray beard that adorned his chin.
He lifted his hands, made a forward movement, as if to carry into execution the dastard work his heart had conjured up. One step, and he came to a sudden pause.
A strange sound greeted his ears and held his steps. The sound seemed to proceed from the window.