When raised he was found quite dead. A small phial, which was afterwards picked up in the conservatory, and which contained yet a lingering drop of deadly poison, told his fate. The erring spirit had flown to its Maker, there to render up that awful account, which we may shudder at, but not define.
CHAPTER CXVII.
The Pursuit for Britton.
A shudder ran through the gaily attired guests at this awful and most unlooked for termination of the fête they had come to witness. Many pulled off their masks, and Ada, as she clung convulsively to Albert, said,—
“Oh, that I had remained unknown, poor and nameless, rather than acquired what they say I have, by such awful steps as these.”
Sir Francis Hartleton then spoke aloud, saying,—
“This man has poisoned himself to escape the just penalty of his crimes, but another act of justice yet remains to be done. Officers, hasten to the Old Chequers, at Westminster; living or dead, arrest Andrew Britton.”
There was a wild shriek at this moment at the door of the principal saloon, and in another moment, brandishing a knife in her hand, mad Maud rushed forward.
“Who spoke of Andrew Britton?” she cried. “Who talks of him? Tell me where he is, that I may hunt him. That I may see his blood flow like a rivulet. Heaven has kept life in me yet that I may see Andrew Britton die. Ha, ha, ha! He is to die before poor mad Maud, who was hooted and pelted through mud and mire, till the good angel pitied her. The good angel—bless you, Heaven bless you—look kindly on poor Maud, who has come to see Andrew Britton die.”
The guests huddled together in groups, and looked in each other’s faces with fear and amazement, while each wondered what next would occur to fill them with terror, ere they could depart from the splendid mansion, which they had approached with such widely different feelings.