The Works of George W. M. Reynolds — page 368: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

/ LAST ACT OF NIGHT’S TRAGEDY 351 able to settle my thoughts on any particular point. It quite escaped me, in the whirl of my ideas, that the lives of Loftus and Lady Prescott were, so to speak, in my own hand.” ‘Well, then, it is perhaps all for the better,’ said Mrs. Ranger, with the doggedness of determination. ‘‘ Dead people tell no tales, and therefore it is better that the tongues of Loftus and Lady Prescott should be silenced than that we should be at their mercy. Since you did not speak the word, Maravelli will do his work. And now,’ she added, with an emphasis and a look both alike of darkest meaning, ‘“T shall do mine.” ‘““ You — you — are resolved, then?” faltered Agatha, glancing with uncontrollable horror toward the screen, from behind which the rustling of garments and the whisper- ing of coarse voices came. | ‘To be sure,’ rejoined Mrs. Ranger. ‘“ If Loftus and Lady Prescott are to die to-night, how is it possible to allow Bergami to live? ”’ Agatha spoke not another word, but for nearly a minute she stood gazing in vacant terror upon Mrs. Ranger, not only in astonishment at the extraordinary firmness of that woman at other times so frivolous and full of affectations, but also as much as to ask whether it was possible that a murder so foul, so cold-blooded, was to be done that night within the walls of the villa. | ‘“ Retire, Agatha, retire,’ said Mrs. Ranger, at length, “and in less than half an hour from this time all will be Over.” Agatha still remained speechless; her tongue was parched, her throat was dry, as if she had been swallowing ashes, and yet it seemed that if she even for a single moment re- laxed the strong hold that she was maintaining upon her feelings, she must give full vent to her anguish in one long, loud, and penetrating scream. Mrs. Ranger pushed her gently toward the door, and Agatha, quitting the chamber, dragged herself along the passage to her own room, where, locking the door, she threw herself upon the couch, and burying her face in the pillow to stifle her cries, gave vent to all the tremendous anguish that for the last quarter of an hour had gathered and re- mained pent up in her almost bursting bosom. CORNICLOO! CS (C(O) am