There was a simultaneous cry.
Mr. Bryson hurried on rapidly:
"Sybilla Silver stabbed her, and threw her over upon the shore. Mr. Parmalee picked her up—not dead, but badly wounded—took her on board a vessel—took her finally to America. Sybilla Silver deceived your poor wife as she deceived us all. Lady Kingsland thought it was you, Sir Everard. But she is alive and well, and in Worrel at this very moment. Our first business is to cage our bird before she flies. Can you aid us any, Sir Everard? Where are we most likely to find her?"
"At the Court," the baronet answered. "She left here to go there—to kill my mother with her horrible news, if she could."
"We will leave you now," Mr. Bryson said, rising. "Come, gentlemen;
Sir Everard wants to be alone. I am off to secure my prisoner."
It was on his way back to his own house that Mr. Bryson lighted on his ghostly plan for frightening Sybilla. How well it succeeded you know.
She was still insensible when they reached the prison, and was handed over to the proper authorities. Harriet turned her imploring face toward the lawyer.
"Let me go to my husband! Oh, dear Mr. Bryson, let me go at once!"
They led her to the door. The jailer admitted her and closed it again. She was in her husband's prison-cell. Her arms were around his neck, her tears, her kisses raining on his face.
"Oh, my darling, my darling! my life, my love, my husband!"