That wild cry caused a sensation throughout the half-empty courtroom. Men looked toward her in alarm, and then sprang forward to go to her assistance.

The colonel, who had at that instant been looking in another direction, could not account for the unexpected change in his daughter’s demeanor. He gazed at her in amazement; then, with a quick exclamation of alarm, bent down and raised her up. She was a dead weight in his arms. He carried her to a bench, tore away her veil, and saw that her eyes were closed, and that her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.

“What is it, colonel? What’s the matter?” cried several, as they pushed forward.

“My daughter has fainted,” was the old man’s excited reply. “Is there a doctor near?”

He bent down, unclasped the belt about her waist, and began to rub her hands. The crowd increased, and presently a physician pushed his way forward.

“Give her more room, and open the windows,” was the medical man’s first command. “She needs fresh air more than anything else. The atmosphere has been too close and enervating for her in here.”

This seemed reasonable enough. Two constables who were present at once began to clear the room, and the windows went up with a bang. Among other things the physician brought forth a bottle of smelling salts, and applied it to the nostrils of the unconscious one.

Presently Maud opened her eyes and gazed about her vacantly.

“Where is he?” she demanded, and struggled to sit up.

“What is it, my dear?” asked her father. “There! There! Do not excite yourself. You are all right now.”

“But—but—he—— What has happened to me?” and now she stared at the strange physician.

“You fainted, Maud, but you are all right now.”

She did not reply to this, but drew a long breath and shuddered. She tried to rise, but found herself too weak to do so.

“Sit still a while, my dear; there is no need of haste. This gentleman is a doctor.”

She stared at the physician. Then she sprang up and looked about the courtroom, but the man who had so suddenly confronted her was gone.

“I do not want to remain here, papa; take me home,” she almost sobbed.

“In a little while, Maud. Calm yourself——”

“No, no! Take me home now, please.”

He could not resist her appeal, and, as she arose, he supported her on one side. The physician assisted her on the other side, and thus the three passed to the conveyance outside, through two lines of curious onlookers. Maud was helped into the vehicle, and the colonel, after handing his card to the doctor, followed.

“I thought it was too close in the courtroom, especially where we sat, so near the stove,” was the colonel’s comment, when they had started.

“Yes, it was fearfully close,” she replied; “I do not think I will want to go there again.”

“Well, it was the mental strain, too,” he went on. “The proceedings were very dramatic.”

“Yes, papa.”

“Cross appears to bear up, though, even if he is rather pale.”

“Yes, papa.”

He saw that she did not wish to converse on the subject, nor, indeed, on any theme, and so he lapsed into silence. He thought he understood all that was passing in her mind, but he was greatly deceived. She had not given a thought to Henry Cross since the trial had closed for the day.

When the mansion was at last reached, the two alighted at the side porch, and the colonel assisted his daughter into the house.

“I will go upstairs and change my dress,” she said, and off she sped up the broad steps, before he had time to make answer.

Her room reached, she locked herself in. The hat and veil were cast aside, and with one prolonged sob, the utterance of an overcharged heart, she cast herself, face downward, on the bed. Her fair form shook from head to foot with agony, and it was only the soft pillow that kept her convulsive cries of anguish from ringing through the house.

“Alive!” she moaned over and over again. “Alive! And I thought him dead! What will become of me now? What will become of my darling Roy?”

Over and over she asked herself those questions. The hot, scalding tears ran down her cheeks and wet the pillow. A strange light came into her wide-open blue eyes.

“Oh, to end it all—to get away from this misery forever!” she whispered. “Why did I not die? Why didn’t they let me die, when Roy was born?—and why didn’t he die with me? It would have been so much easier for us both. So much easier.”

She sat up and rocked to and fro, running her hands through the long silken hair that had tumbled down over her shoulders. Never before had her heart, which had stood so much, been wrung with so much keen torture as now. She leaped up desperately, and ran toward a dainty stand in a corner. There was a drawer to the stand, and, pulling this out, she felt beneath a number of loose articles, and brought forth—a tiny, pearl-handled revolver.

“His pistol!” she went on, gazing at the weapon curiously. “His pistol, the one he once threatened me with when he was angry with drink. Why not make use of it, and end all? Why not?”

Toying with the revolver, she began to pace the floor nervously. It could easily be done. She had but to place that glistening muzzle to her forehead, press the trigger, and all would be over.

And see what good she could do! Her written confession would clear Henry Cross, for she would tell all—her guilty secret—how Chesterbrook had discovered it, and thought That Man still alive. He then had written the letter breaking off the marriage. She had gone to him, with this letter in her hand, and said that He was dead, had been drowned, and that she was free, but for the child. Chesterbrook had forgiven her—at least, he had said he would—and she had hurried home at the last moment, to prepare for their wedding; and then he had changed his mind and taken his own life.

Ah, what a miserable world, where everything went wrong! And what sort of woman was she to bring one man to self-destruction and another in the shadow of the electric chair? And Chesterbrook had been so kind to her through it all; and here was Cross, willing to die rather than drag her and her secret before the public. But he should not die. No! She loved him—and—and—he must not die for her sins.

She grasped the pistol tighter, and went again to the stand and got out several sheets of paper and a pencil. How should she begin? To whom should she write? To her father?

The thought of that kind face, of the loving heart waiting for her below gave her another shock. What had her father said about Chesterbrook?

“Maud, that man committed suicide. Let us forget him, for he is unworthy to be remembered. A thousand times better had an enemy killed him by inches than to die such a base, ignoble death! Forget him, my child, for the suicide is a moral coward, not worthy to receive one tribute of regret from those left behind.”

Those were his words, and he seemed to be now addressing them to her again. She flung away the paper and the pencil, and the hand that held the revolver fell limply by her side.

She would not be a coward; she would be brave; she would face it all. She placed the revolver on the bureau, sank down on her knees before the bed, and began to pray.

When she arose it was dark, and below the bell had already been rung for dinner, about which the colonel was, as with everything else, very punctual. She took off her dress, donned a simple house gown, and sought, by the aid of water and some toilet preparation, to remove the signs of her keen suffering. She glided below and took her accustomed seat at the table without a word.

The colonel was already there, sipping his soup. He looked at her and noted her white face, but said nothing. He had been thinking deeply while standing before the open grate in the library, but he had reached no satisfactory conclusion, and he did not speak, mainly because he did not know what to say. It was only when the meat was brought on, and she refused to partake of it, that he opened his mouth.

“Come, come, my dear, you really must eat. Why, you will become a mere shadow if you don’t. Here is a tempting piece, just done to perfection. Try that now.” And she was forced to swallow half a dozen mouthfuls just for his sake. She was glad enough when the coffee was served, and she could leave him to his glass of old port and his cigar.

She walked into the parlor, for that was still dark, and she preferred the gloom. The blinds of one of the windows were still open, and here she sat down to gaze fixedly out at the almost wintry landscape. The autumn was going fast, she thought—going like her own hopes, leaving the world cold and drear.

How would it all end? That was the question which now tortured her. The end must come, sooner or later—it must be close at hand. And he was alive. He had not been drowned at all, and she had so often thanked Heaven that he had been taken away!

Presently a servant came in to close the blinds and turn on the lights. She was about to give orders to the contrary when a boy ascended to the front piazza and rang the bell. He held an envelope in his hand.

Filled with a strange presentiment, Maud hurried to the door to see what the boy wanted. It was as she supposed—the letter he carried was for her, and it was marked personal.

“There’s no reply,” said the youth. Then he lingered, and added: “It’s a putty good long walk up to here, miss, and mighty cold, too.”

She understood him and handed him a quarter. He grinned, thanked her, and ran down the steps with a clatter. With her heart beating rapidly, she reëntered the house and hurried up to her room. On the instant the envelope was torn open. It contained but a small slip of paper, on which was written:

“Meet me at the white, double boathouse up the lake front at eight o’clock to-night. Fail, at your peril!”

There was no signature, but she knew the writer only too well.