He groped his way to the side of the wall, and found the knobs of the electric lights. He turned two on and looked around him. Wingrave was lying a few yards off, with a small red stain upon his shirt front. His face was ghastly pale, and he was breathing thickly. The young man looked at him for several moments, and then made his way to the side table where the sandwiches were. One by one he took them from the dish, and ate deliberately. When he had finished, he made his way once more towards where Wingrave lay. But before he reached the spot, he stopped short. Something on the wall had attracted his attention. He put his hand to his head and thought for a moment. It was an idea—a glorious idea.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Lady Ruth’s maid stepped back and surveyed her mistress ecstatically.
“Milady,” she declared, “has never, no never, appeared more charming. The gown, it is divine—and the coiffure! Milady will have no rivals.”
Lady Ruth looked at herself long and earnestly in the glass. Her face reflected none of the pleased interest with which her maid was still regarding her. The latter grew a little anxious.
“Milady thinks herself a trifle pale, perhaps—a little more color?”
Lady Ruth set down the glass.
“No, thank you, Annette,” she answered. “I shall do very well, I suppose. Certainly, I won’t have any rouge.”
“Milady knows very well what becomes her,” the woman answered discreetly. “The pallor, it is the more distinguished. Milady cannot fail to have all the success she desires!”
Lady Ruth smiled a little wearily. And at that moment, there came a knock at the door. A servant entered.