with a hurried glance around he crept towards the still form of his friend.

"Philip," he whispered, kneeling beside Trevanna's body, "Philip."

No answer! Adrian opened Trevanna's shirt and placed his hand on the heart—it did not beat—he leaned his face downward to the slightly parted lips; there was no breath, and then, for the first time, a sense of what he had done seemed to break on him.

"Dead!" he whispered with ashen grey lips, in a paroxysm of terror, clasping his hands. "Dead!—I've killed him."

He arose slowly to his feet, looked vacantly round the room, at the still, white face, at the stream of blood, then staggering to a side table he snatched up a bottle of whisky, and without waiting to fill a glass placed it to his lips. The fiery spirit put new life into him, and as his blood coursed swiftly through his veins, he braced his muscles, shook his head to clear the clouds which seemed to fog his brain, and nerved himself for action.

"I can't stay here," he whispered to himself, putting one hand up to his throat, "they would arrest me for murder—I would be hanged—Oh, God, the disgrace—poor Olive!"

The storm so long threatening had burst at last over the city, and the rain was pouring down with tropical violence, while every now and then, through the interstices of the Venetian blinds, gleamed the blueish flash of the lightning, and the deep roll of thunder which followed seemed to the ears of Adrian like the voice of an accusing angel denouncing him as a murderer.

There was no time to be lost, for at any moment someone might come up to his rooms and discover his crime; he would have to fly—but where could he fly to? where, in all this great city, was there a refuge for a murderer? Still, he dare not stay; he could give no plausible explanation, the evidence of his guilt was too strong; the police would come up, he would be arrested, then the inquest, the trial, the verdict—with the rapidity of lightning the possibility of these things flashed across his mind—and with a hoarse cry he sprang past the body on the floor into his bedroom.

There he put on a heavy ulster, which, reaching nearly to his feet, effectually hid the evening clothes he had no time to change. Then he put on a soft hat, pulled it down over his eyes, caught up a heavy stick and stole out again into the sitting-room, half thinking that it was all some hideous dream. But no, it was only too true—there on the 

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