Going to Maybelle’s room, he told her what had happened, and asked her to examine the wound.
Shuddering at sight of the blood, his sister carefully unwrapped the bandages, and found that the wound—a very slight one, though it had bled freely—had already been carefully dressed.
“Your swoon must have been a long one, to enable her to do all this before she fled from the house,” said Maybelle, as she carefully replaced the bandages.
Otho was bitterly chagrined at the failure of his scheme and Floy’s second escape from his devilish machinations.
“And the worst of it is that I can not follow up her track for some time now. I shall be obliged to keep my room several days with this mark of affection she has given me,” he growled.
Maybelle wept in bitterness of spirit; but she had no reproaches to offer him now. He had done all that he could, and was not to blame for his failure.
It seemed to her as if her lovely rival must indeed bear a charmed life, so cleverly had she escaped each time from the machinations of her enemies.
Her chances of ever winning Beresford grew each day less and less; but so madly had she fixed her heart upon him that it seemed to her without that hope she must die.
It was less than a year since she had known him, but her jealousy had altered all her life.
Before she met him, Maybelle had been simply a handsome, selfish girl, ambitious to make a grand match—even to secure a title, if possible.