Henri Comte des Vignes, the plotter in a robbery of the man who had been his benefactor, perhaps his murderer.
“Comte des Vignes!” he said, with a curious laugh. “Boy! vain, weak, empty-headed boy! What have I done—what have I done?”
“Harry!”
He started round with a cry to face his sister.
“Not been to bed?”
“No,” he said wearily. “I could not sleep.”
She laid her hands upon his shoulders and kissed him.
“Neither could I,” she said, “for thinking of it all. Harry, if he should die!”
He looked down into the eyes gazing so questioningly into his, but his lips framed no answer.
He was listening to the echoing of his sister’s words, which seemed to go on and on thrilling through the mazes of his brain, an infinitesimally keen and piercing sound at last, but still so plain and clear—