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Cynthia, with one desperate effort, flung the man back into his corner and, as the butler turned the stiff handle and opened the door, half jumped, half fell out of the landau.

“A man’s in the carriage, Joshua,” she cried. “See who it is.”

The servant looked at her in surprise, then obediently poked his head inside the open door. Unable to see clearly he drew back and fumbled in his pocket for a matchbox.

“Keep dem hosses still, Hamilton,” he directed, as the coachman leaned down from his seat, and then he pulled out a match. “Miss Cynthia, yo’ bettah go inter der house,” glancing at the young girl’s pale countenance, “I’ll ’ten to dis hyar pusson.”

But Cynthia remained where she was and peeped over the butler’s shoulder. He struck a match and held it in the hollow of his hand until the tiny flame grew brighter, then leaned forward and gazed into the carriage.

The intruder was huddled in the corner, his head thrown back, and the light fell on a livid face and was reflected back from glazing eyes. Cynthia’s knees gave way, and she sank speechless to the ground.