The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. They were suddenly thrown aside, and a man stepped out from his hiding-place. "You'll be as good as your word, my charmer," whispered the executioner. In a sense I don’t care. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon. I will have nothing to do with you. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head.
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