Belle Braddon had glided silently out of Flood’s private room and was hurrying down the hall stairs.
Despite her derisive laughter and the taunting remarks with which she had mocked her helpless victim, her cheeks were as white as the knot of lace on her heaving breast.
The awful horror of the crime she had committed was upon her. She fully believed that she had left Nick Carter to suffocate in the foul atmosphere of the walled passage; or, if spared that fate, that thirst and starvation would overcome him.
The very hideousness of the crime shook even her callous nature and filled her quaking soul with nameless horror.
The nervous tremor of her feet on the uncarpeted stairs as she hurriedly descended thrilled her with alarm, and her knees were knocking together when she reached the lower hall.
There she paused and caught her breath, steadying herself, then went into one of the silent parlors, as silent as death itself, to peer through the closed blinds into the sunlit street.
The brighter light outside restored her nerve, and a smile of vengeful exultation relaxed her drawn gray lips.
“He’s as good as done for, as good as done for,” she muttered through her teeth. “It serves him right. It was his life or that of my uncle, and all is fair when life hangs in the balance. He would have turned Nate down as indifferently as he did me, and he has invited only what he has got. Let him take his medicine, then! It’s what he deserves!”
With such reasoning as this she put the horrid crime out of her mind, and resolved to think no more about it.
With calmness came greater cunning. She reasoned that she might be seen leaving Flood’s house, if she departed by the front door. Instead, she descended to the basement.