That intruder was not, however, Banks—nor any one of the Resurrection Man's accomplices in crime.
CHAPTER CCXXIX.
THE WIDOW.
We must now return to that beautiful little villa, in the environs of Upper Clapton, to which we introduced our readers in the early portion of this history, and where we first found Eliza Sydney disguised in the garb of a man.
Nothing was altered in the appearance of that charming suburban retreat, either externally or internally,—unless it were that there were no dogs in the kennels nor horses in the stables, and that the elegant boudoir no longer displayed articles of male attire.
But the trees around were green with the verdure of Spring; the fields, stretching behind far as the eye could reach, were smiling and cultivated; and umbrageous was the circular grove that bounded the garden.
In the parlour on the ground-floor still hung the miniatures of Eliza and her dead brother—that brother whom she had personated with such fatal consequences to herself!
And now on the sofa in that parlour sate Eliza Sydney herself,—dressed in deep mourning.
She was pale—but beautiful as ever!
The snow-white widow's cap concealed her bright chesnut hair, save where the shining masses were parted, glossy and smooth, over her lofty and polished forehead.
The high black dress and plain collar covered the snowy whiteness of her neck, but still displayed the admirable contours of her bust.