Her Ladyship's Burglar

gure spoke, and she started horribly at the sound of the whispered words.

"I don't want to commit murder, but if you move or attempt to wake him, I must shoot you both first, and myself afterwards."

Lady Kenilworth's heart gave a great throb-but this time of relief. There was a queer sound like badly-suppressed tears in the desperado's voice, and she recognized that the burglar's accents were not those of the New Cut or of Whitechapel.

A boyish, intent face, with parted lips and staring eyes, came back in vivid vision to her, just as she had seen it only a few hours before, and with the realisation of all this rash act involved, a wave of infinite regret swept over her sensitive heart. It was her fault; this was her crime; he was merely sinning from the stress of the circumstances into which she had helped to plunge him.

"Your hushand won't wake--easily," the words came halting and half articulated. "If you promise to give me what I came for, I'll not harm either of you."