Margie had not slept. She had paced her chamber until long after
midnight, utterly disregarding Alexandrine, who had knocked repeatedly
at her door, and at last, overcome by weariness, she had sunk down in
a chair by the open window, and sat there, gazing blankly out into the
night, with its purple heavens, and its glory of sparkling stars.
Nothing could have tempted Margie to have credited such a story of her
lover, had it not been for the overwhelming evidence of her own senses.
Ever since the night of Paul Linmere's assassination, she had at times
been tortured with agonizing doubts. From the first she had been morally
sure whose lips had touched her hand that night in the graveyard; she
knew that no other presence than that of Archer Trevlyn had the power to
influence her as she had been influenced. She knew that he had been
there, though she had not seen him; and for what purpose had he been
there? It was a question she had asked herself a thousand times!
There could be no doubt any longer. She was forced to that conclusion at
last; her heart sinking like lead in her bosom as she came to acknowledge
it. In a moment of terrible temptation, Arch Trevlyn had stained his
hands with blood! And for her sake!
There was a violent warfare in her heart.
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