PAGE
Chapter I[1]
Chapter II[9]
Chapter III[17]
Chapter IV[25]
Chapter V[33]
Chapter VI[41]
Chapter VII[49]
Chapter VIII[57]
Chapter IX[65]
Chapter X[73]
Chapter XI[81]
Chapter XII[89]
Chapter XIII[97]
Chapter XIV[105]
Chapter XV[113]
Chapter XVI[121]
Chapter XVII[129]
Chapter XVIII[137]
Chapter XIX[145]
Chapter XX[153]
Chapter XXI[161]
Chapter XXII[169]
Chapter XXIII[177]
Chapter XXIV[185]
Chapter XXV[193]
Chapter XXVI[201]
Chapter XXVII[209]
Chapter XXVIII[217]
Chapter XXIX[225]
Chapter XXX[233]
Chapter XXXI[241]
Chapter XXXII[249]
Chapter XXXIII[256]
Chapter XXXIV[264]
Chapter XXXV[272]
Chapter XXXVI[280]
Chapter XXXVII[288]
Chapter XXXVIII[296]
Chapter XXXIX[304]
Chapter XL[312]

ILLUSTRATIONS

"Nothing daunted, the pair made a rush at Berrington, who fired right and left"[Frontispiece]
"Richford stood there shaking and quivering with passion"[Page 49]
"The police-officer looked suspiciously at the figure"[" 107]

THE SLAVE OF SILENCE

CHAPTER I

The girl turned away from the splendour of it and laid her aching head against the cool windowpane. A hansom flashed along in the street below with just a glimpse of a pretty laughing girl in it with a man by her side. From another part of the Royal Palace Hotel came sounds of mirth and gaiety. All the world seemed to be happy, to-night, perhaps to mock the misery of the girl with her head against the windowpane.

And yet on the face of it, Beatrice Darryll's lines seemed to have fallen in pleasant places. She was young and healthy, and, in the eyes of her friends, beautiful. Still, the startling pallor of her face was in vivid contrast with the dead black dress she wore, a dress against which her white arms and throat stood out like ivory on a back-ground of ebony and silver. There was no colour about the girl at all, save for the warm, ripe tone of her hair and the deep, steadfast blue of her eyes. Though her face was cold and scornful, she would not have given the spectator the impression of coldness, only utter weariness and a tiredness of life at the early age of twenty-two.

Behind her was a table laid out for a score of dinner guests. Everything was absolutely perfect and exceedingly costly, as appertained to all things at the Royal Palace Hotel, where the head waiter condescended to bow to nothing under a millionaire. The table decorations were red in tone, there were red shades to the low electric lights, and masses of red carnations everywhere. No taste, and incidentally no expense had been spared, for Beatrice Darryll was to be married on the morrow, and her father, Sir Charles, was giving this dinner in honour of the occasion. Only a very rich man could afford a luxury like that.

"I think everything is complete, madame," a waiter suggested softly. "If there is anything——"