“How much?” she said, with a sneer. “But don’t trouble yourself, I shan’t want it. I shall be as rich as you, I expect; and if it wasn’t that I love bleeding you, you skinflint, I’d fling these notes back in your face. But I’m going to keep ’em for the present. Perhaps I’ll buy a weddin’ gift for your pretty, young wife, Mr. Bradstone,” and her laugh rang out again.
He took out his watch—the silver one; and she, with a smile of derision, pulled out his watch—the gold one.
“Gettin’ late, I suppose. You want to be off for the honeymoon. Well, I’ll come with you—just as far as the drive. Perhaps we shall meet the young lady, and you can introduce me, here and now. Ah——” she broke off, for with a snarl he snatched something from his breast-pocket. There was a flash, a sharp twang, a little puff of smoke, and the next instant the magnificent form of Bella-Bella, the Queen of the Air, was lying full length on the mossy ground.
She had scarcely uttered a cry louder than the fear-breathing “Ah!” and yet it seemed to the trembling wretch who stood with the smoking revolver in his hand that the wood echoed with fiendish yells. The great trees waved and danced before him, the earth seemed to rock under his feet, and he quaked like one of the rustling leaves, which all had tongues to cry “Murder!”
So he stood, and so she lay, breathing short, but speechless, while one could count twenty. Then the assassin’s first instinct, flight, smote upon him, and he turned and fled. But no farther than the edge of the drive. There a horrid remembrance flashed upon him. On that prostrate figure which he had left for dead, were the notes, which could be traced, his watch, his silver cigar case, which a hundred people would recognize as his.
There was a direct path to the scaffold before him. With a low cry, he turned back, and, bending over her, forced the notes from her hand, keeping his eyes away from the white face, and above all—ah, above all—the thin stream of red which trickled from her side.
The notes were his. With a shudder he thrust them into his pocket, and bent over her again, when suddenly he uttered a cry, a smothered yell of hysterical fear, and looked up. Above him stood Harold Faradeane!
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE MAN AND THE COWARD.
The miserable wretch shrank back, putting out his hands as if to ward off the stern, accusing eyes, and groaned. Faradeane flung himself down on one knee beside the prostrate form, and raising her head, looked into her face. As he recognized her, he gave a start of surprise, but instantly placed his hand over her heart. Then he turned his eyes upon the cowering Bradstone.
“You have killed her!” he said, in a low, hoarse voice.