"Queenie has deceived me," she said to herself, angrily. "She is in collusion with Lawrence. I might have known she would play me false!"
She looked about her hurriedly. A long, black silk circular, lined with fur, hung over a chair. She put it on over her white dress, caught up a thick veil, winding it about her head and face, and hurried out to the retired western door.
Outside in the darkness stood a tall, muffled form.
"Queenie, is it you?" he said in unfamiliar tones.
In a moment she realized her mistake. It was not her husband, but in the hope of unearthing some fatal mystery, she said softly:
"Yes, it is Queenie."
These words sealed her doom. The man sprang forward and caught her by the arm.
Something bright and slender gleamed an instant in his upraised hand and then was sheathed in her heart.
As her terrible scream of agony divided the shuddering air, he turned and fled from the scene of his crime.
But poor Sydney, the victim of her own misguided passion lay there dying, with the deadly steel of the assassin sheathed in her jealous breast.