The Moving Finger

"Yes, I heard," Millicent could hardly articulate, and her glance strayed hopelessly about the room. "I -- I must go to mother."

"Surely." Vera laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. "But first take a sip of this," and she poured out a glass of cognac from the decanter left in the room after the dinner the night before. She had almost to force the stimulant down the girl's throat, then, placing her arm about her waist, she half supported her out of the room and up the staircase.

As they came into view Hugh Wyndham left his post by Brainard's door and darted toward them. Millicent waved him back and shrank from his proffered hand.

"Not now, dear Hugh," she stammered, reading the compassion in his fine dark eyes. "I must see mother -- and alone." With the false strength induced by the cognac she freed herself gently from Vera's encircling arm and, entering her moth