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60 passed me,—I think it was John,—riding back. I thought something must have happened; and I saw a light here, and found the door ajar, so I came in."

"I wish you had come at any other time," said I; for I could not help perceiving that her presence in the neighborhood so near the hour of the murder might prove an awkward circumstance hereafter. "It would be best that no one should know of it. Are you afraid to go back to where you left your horse?"

"That is what I am going to do," she replied. "It is almost sunrise."

"It will probably be at least two hours before the others are here," I went on. "I advise you to stay near the barn until you hear them coming. Then ride to meet them, and give them to understand that you lost your way in the woods. They will be too much preoccupied to take any special notice, and the whole thing will probably be forgotten."

"Why should there be any concealment?" she demanded, drawing her brows together.

"Because," said I, "there has been a murder; and murders are followed by inquests. Everybody who can be supposed capable of giving any information will be examined. If you were put on the stand, you might be asked questions that you would not wish to answer. There are things which you have not told me, Sinfire: would you wish to tell them to the world?"

"Nobody could make me say anything I did not wish to," replied she; but, after a little thought, she added, "I suppose your advice is good. I won't be imprudent. But nothing seems of much consequence, compared with this!" The last words were spoken in a lower voice, and with a sort of momentary drooping of her whole figure. But she pulled herself together promptly, and faced me with a smile. "Good-by!" she said, holding out her hand.

I took her hand in mine. "I'm not myself now, Sinfire," I said: "I can't be, for some time to come. There are hard things to be done yet, and I must keep myself hard, so as to do them. But when it is all over I shall have something to say. Meanwhile, good-by!"

She went out, with her light, vigorous step, and I was alone again. It was now daylight: I put out my lamp and threw open the shutters. I went into the laboratory and drew aside the curtain of Sâprani's cage. I tapped on the glass, and called to her: she came out from beneath her blanket, glided forward, and reared herself up. She knows me well now, and will allow me to take any respectful liberties with her. For my part, I feel an affection for the beautiful, deadly creature that would