In the recess beside the fireplace were some open bookshelves. Watching her strip had been delicious for him, and a part of him enjoyed her self-consciousness acutely. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. "To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper.
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