But the next second, she realized that Lady Warren was only referring to her denture, which was in an enamel cup, on the bed-table.

She looked away tactfully, while the august invalid fished them out of the disinfectant, with her fingers, and adjustedthem in her gums. “Helen,” she cooed, in a new dove-like voice, “I want you to sleep with me, tonight.”

Helen looked at her, aghast, for the change in her was both grotesque and horrible. The denture forced her lips apart in a stiff artificial grin, which gave her an unhuman resemblance to an old waxwork.

“You were afraid of me, without my teeth,” Lady Warten told her. “But you won’t be afraid now. I want to take care of you, tonight.”

Helen licked her lips nervously.

“But, my lady,” said Helen, “the new nurse will sleep with you tonight.”

“I’d forgotten the new nurse. Another slut. Well, I’ll be ready for her. But you’re to sleep with me. You see, my dear, you’re not safe.”

As she smiled, Helen was suddenly reminded of the grin of a crocodile.

“I couldn’t pass a night alone with her,” she thought, even while she was conscious that her fear was only of her own creation. It was obviously absurd to be afraid of a bedridden old woman.

“I’m afraid I can do nothing without Miss Warren’s instructions,” she said.

“My stepdaughter’s a fool. She doesn’t know what’s going on in this house. Trees always trying to get in… . Come here, Helen.” As Helen stooped over the bed, she felt her hand caught in a strong grip.

“I want you to get me something,” whispered Lady Warren. “It’s in the cupboard at the top of the wardrobe. Get on a chair.”

Helen, who was enjoying the rare flavor of an adventure, decided to humor her.

She climbed on to one of the heavy chairs and stood on her toes, in order to open the door of the cupboard.

She felt a little doubtful of the commission, as she groped with her hand, in the dark recess. It was evident that Lady Warren was using her as a tool, to procure forbidden fruit. With a memory of her inflamed nose, she suspected a hidden bottle of brandy.

“What is it?” she called.

“A little hard thing, wrapped in a silk scarf,” was the disarming reply.

As she spoke, Helen’s fingers closed upon something which answered to the description.

“Is this it?” she asked, springing to the ground.

“Yes.” Lady Warren’s voice was eager. “Bring it to me.”

In the short journey to the bed, Helen was gripped with a sudden fear of the thing she held. Even under its mufflings, its shape was unmistakable. It was a revolver. She remembered Lady Warren’s dead rabbits—and also a husband shot dead by accident.’

“I wonder if it’s loaded,” she thought fearfully. “I can’t even tell which is the dangerous end… . I mustn’t let her have it. Mrs. Oates warned me.”

“Bring it to me,” commanded Lady Warren.

She made no attempt to disguise her excitement. Her fingers shook with eagerness, as she stretched out her hands.

Helen pretended not to hear. With affected carelessness, she laid down the revolver on a small table—at a safe distance from the invalid-before she advanced to the bed.

“Now, you mustn’t get worked up,” she said soothingly.

“It is so bad for your heart.”

Fortunately Lady Warren’s attention was distracted by her words.

“What does the doctor say about me?” she asked.

“He says your vitality is wonderful,” replied Helen.

“Then he’s a fool. I’m a dead woman… . But I’m not going to die till I’m ready.”

Her lids closed, so that her eyes were visible only as a narrow black rim. Her shrivelled face seemed to become a.