The door of Miss Lucy’s boudoir was open, and entering, she saw Pauline and Haviland with horror-stricken faces, gazing at a terrible sight.
Miss Lucy Carrington, seated before her dressing-table, her face white and ghastly, her large eyes staring wide—staring horribly,—but, without doubt, unseeing. Nor was this all of the strangeness of the sight. She was robed in an embroidered Oriental-looking gown, and wore many jewels. Her red-dyed hair, dressed elaborately, as she had worn it the night before, was still crowned with the enormous comb of carved tortoise-shell, but the comb was broken to bits. One portion, still standing upright, rose above the disordered coiffure, but the rest, in broken scraps, lay scattered over the puffs of hair,—over the white hands clasped in her lap,—and on the floor at her feet.
“What does it mean?” whispered Anita, shuddering, “is she—is she dead?”
“Yes,” answered Haviland, briefly. He stood, hands in pockets, gazing at the startling figure.
“Who?—What?——” Anita’s eyes riveted themselves on something else.
Around the neck of Miss Lucy was,—yes, it was—a snake!
With a low scream, Anita flung herself into Haviland’s arms, but he put her gently away from him.
Aghast at this repulse, Anita put her hand across her eyes and turned to leave the room.
“Mind where you go, ’Nita!” called out Haviland, and the girl stopped just in time to save herself from stepping into a mass of débris.
“Why!” she cried, “why, it’s Miss Lucy’s tray!”