She had not answered the letter yet, although he had commanded her to send a reply to-day. She waited in terror, silent, yet hoping that something would interpose to save her—praying that ere the morrow dawned her persecutor would fall down dead.
"It is no harm, no sin, to wish him dead, that fiend who only lives to plan ruin for the innocent," she cried, in anguish, crumpling the fatal letter in her writhing hands.
Then she gave a violent start, and looked toward the door, her hair seeming to rise on her head with terror.
Did she really hear a low rat-tat upon her door there in the dead waste and middle of the night?
She stood motionless, with her handsome head turned toward the door in an attitude of startled expectancy.
The low knocking came again, and then a low, sweet voice called, softly:
"Are you asleep? It's only me! Please let me in, dear?"
The voice sounded like that of Claire, her sweet little girl pupil.
With a sigh of relief she moved to the door and cautiously opened it.
The next moment she started back with a shuddering cry of fear that was echoed by the figure on the threshold.