"
Then he came to his feet and began pacing the room with measured tread in
front of his calmly sleeping wife.
There were many contending emotions in the breast of Andrew Barkswell as
he paced the floor in front of his sleeping wife.
If he ever possessed a spark of human sympathy, the past few weeks of his
life in Grandon had obliterated the feeling.
One more life stood between him and his goal; that life was even now on
the verge of the unknown.
"I might throttle her," he muttered in a half audible tone, as his
glittering eyes peered into the quiet face of the slumberer. "No one
would be the wiser, and then I would be free to pursue my wooing of the
heiress."
He moved a step nearer the sleeping woman. His fingers twitched and
turned about, as though itching diabolical work. His breath came hot and
hard above the false gray beard that adorned his chin.
He lifted his hands, made a forward movement, as if to carry into
execution the dastard work his heart had conjured up. One step, and he
came to a sudden pause.
A strange sound greeted his ears and held his steps.
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