Frida turned and glanced back at him with scornful eyes. Her mien was resolute. The revolver with which he had shot Bertram Ingledew lay close by her feet, among the bracken on the heath, where Monteith had flung it. She picked it up with one hand, and once more waved him backward.
“I'm going to follow him,” she answered solemnly, in a very cold voice, “where YOU have sent him. But alone by myself: not here, before you.” And she brushed him away, as he tried to seize it, with regal dignity.
Monteith, abashed, turned back without one word, and made his way to the inn in the little village. But Frida walked on by herself, in the opposite direction, across the open moor and through the purple heath, towards black despair and the trout-ponds at Broughton.
THE END