life-blood from about Gilbert Warrington’s craven heart. In a pretty clump of woodland he halted the carriage. Making up his mind that now was the time to reveal himself to his prisoner, he got down from the box and approached[Pg 74] the carriage door. Rosamond had unfastened it and sat clutching the handle desperately, with a suddenly aroused instinct of terror. She had felt so safe with Tom, the old negro coachman, whom she knew would drive her over to Yorke Towers, or any other place that she might request; though, of course, Tom never dreamed that the lady in the carriage was the supposed dead woman, the preparations for whose funeral were going on at The Oaks. Had such a suspicion intruded upon his mind, he would not have held the reins a moment in the service of a ghost, or a “h’ant,” as the negroes call it. But Tom had only observed that it was a woman, and she had requested him to drive her to Yorke Towers. It must be Miss Glyndon, or some friend of the Arleighs. Of course, he did not hesitate, therefore, to obey her orders. But there followed the attack upon him, and being totally unprepared for such a calamity, Tom was, of course, perfectly useless. And all this time Rosamond, crouching within the carriage, eager and anxious to reach Yorke Towers, and stand face to face with Helen Yorke, to demand an explanation of a certain mystery, never dreamed that Tom was not upon the box of the carriage. Had she known the truth before, it would have driven her mad. Her poor brain was even now trembling in the balance between reason and insanity. It would not take much of a blow to quite deprive her of reason. [Pg 74] As Gilbert Warrington opened the carriage door, Rosamond started up, pale and eager. [Pg 75] [Pg 75] “Tom, this is not the road to Yorke Towers!” she exclaimed, wildly. “What do you mean? I will report you to Doctor Danton. Drive me to Yorke Towers at once. This is the road to Belleville. How dare you disobey my orders in this way? I—— Oh, my God! my God!” For a gleam of the dying moonlight falling athwart the man’s face revealed the truth—and Gilbert Warrington. He smiled, and his white teeth had a wolfish gleam as they glittered in the pallid moon rays. “Well, my dear, you see how useless it is to hope to escape me,” he cried. “Even death itself
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