MARGARET'S PERIL.
Margaret double-locked her door, and stood listening with the book clutched fast in her hand.
Drop by drop her blood gurgled from her heart—her hair bristled.
What had she done?
She had thrown the gauntlet at him; henceforth there should be no quarter.
She thought it all out in that breathless watch for the result. She knew that she had given herself over to his sworn vengeance; that she would be cut down from his path like a noxious weed; that the battle which was coming would be a battle for her life.
Yes, her day of grace was past—even now her enemy knew his loss. She had—oh, galling thought!—outwitted him.
He searched his pockets—all of them; he shook the coat—in vain. His eyes stole up the staircase with the green glare of murder in their tawny depths; his lean face grew chalk-white; his hand hid itself in his bosom and griped something there. Alas, for reckless Margaret!
And yet the wretch stood scheming—scheming, wary as his own blood thirsty sleuth-hound.
It was a woman not easily brushed aside; He must be very cautious with his dark revenge, and creep with sheathed claws toward his purpose.