********************START OF HEADER********************
This text has been proofread but is not guaranteed to be free from errors. Corrections to the original text have been left in place.
Title: Falsely Accused, an electronic edition
Author: Fleming, Geraldine, 1851-1924
Publisher: Street & Smith
Place published: New York
Date: 1897
********************END OF HEADER********************
Front cover or Price's Falsely Accused.Advertisement included in Price's Falsely Accused.Advertisement included in Price's Falsely Accused.Falsely AccusedOR,Her Bitter StruggleBYGERALDINE FLEMINGAuthor of "Her Priceless Love," "The Battle of Hearts,""Sold for Gold," etc.STREET & SMITH CORPORATIONPUBLISHERS79-89 Seventh Avenue, New YorkCopyright information for Price's Falsely Accused.FALSELY ACCUSED. CHAPTER 1.
HOPES DEFERRED."Oh, Catharine, it was just awfully sweet of you, you dear old thing!" exclaimed Gypsy, almost crying with delight as she gazed admiringly at the freshly ironed, crisp, white muslin dress which the laundress had just brought in and laid upon her bed. "I did want it 'done up' so much, because, you know, it's my only nice dress, and when a girl's been looking forward for weeks and weeks to having a whole day's holiday in honor of her eighteenth birthday, she doesn't want to go out looking dowdy. I did want the white muslin 'done up'—oh! ever so much, but I didn't like to ask you when you were so busy.""Sure, I suspected as much, Miss Gypsy," replied the laundress. "After you had gone to bed last night, I hunted out the white muslin, washed and starched it, and this morning I got up and ironed it before ever another soul was astir. So there's the dress, darlin', done up as fine as ever myself knows how to do it, and here's a bookay of white roses that Thomas, the gardener, has sent up to you in honor of the day. And here's a hair ribbon for ye, from cook, and a pair of real kid gloves that myself and Maggie, the waitress, bought for ye betune us. And, please, Miss Gypsy, we all wish you many happy returns of the day, and hope that ye'll have the happiest holiday that a body ever had since the world began.""Oh, I'm sure I shall, I'm sure I shall!" responded Gypsy enthusiastically, as she looked out from the window of her shabby little room under the eaves, to

where the bright sunlight shone like gold upon the waters of Narragansett Bay and made all Newport look like a fairy city, with its charming villas, its glowing flower beds, and its lovely walks and drives, all steeped in yellow light. "Yes, I'm sure I shall have the loveliest time that ever was, Catharine. The day is perfectly lovely, and I'm to have it all to myself.""Which is no more than ye deserve, seein' how ye have been worked to death dancing attendance upon Miss Detheredge and her mother, while they receive their fine company in, day in and day out," said Catharine resentfully. "Sure, it's like a slave they treat ye, instead of one of their own flesh and blood, as I've heard the cook say that ye are, ye poor darlin'! And, if it's true, it's a burning shame, it is, for ye to be put to roost up here in the attic with the help, while yer aunt and cousin have fine company down in the parlor and giving yaller teas and violet teas, and talks, and parties, and Hivin knows what else, from week's end to week's end. They never let ye so much as put your nose in the room to see the people or hear the music, or taste the fine fare. But it is true, Miss Gypsy, darlin'? Are ye a niece of the mistress', as cook has been often saying ye are, or is it only one of her games, after all?"Gypsy's dark face clouded suddenly, and her sweet, sensitive lips twitched a little."It was very wrong of cook to tell you that, and Mrs. Detheredge would be terribly angry if she heard of it," she said seriously. "Yes, it is quite true, Catharine, but you must not tell anybody, or Miss Ada and her mother may send me away, and I have no home but the one they give me.""Give ye, is it?" exclaimed Catharine indignantly; "faith, then, it's myself that thinks ye earn it, ye poor darlin', and earn it hard enough. It's slaving ye are from morning to night, and treated like a dog—for all ye have the look and the manners of a lady born.""I am a lady born," said Gypsy, with unconscious dignity. My father is Mrs. Detheredge's own brother, and up to the time I was ten years of age my life was one of luxury and perpetual sunshine, for my father was a very rich man, and I had all I could wish for.""Then why haven't ye it now?" exclaimed old Catharine, her eyes growing round with amazement. "What became of it, that ye are without a penny now?""I don't know," responded Gypsy, with a sigh. "I only know that one summer my beautiful mother went to Europe and died there, and immediately afterward my father, who was almost crazed by her loss, seemed suddenly to conceive a violent dislike to me, and would not suffer me to touch or even come near him. Why he should have turned so bitterly against me, I could not imagine at the time, nor have I ever been able to discover since. I only know that quite suddenly my aunt, Mrs. Detheredge, came to the house and told me that I was to live with her in future; and when I protested—for I never liked her—and asked to be taken to my father that I might beg him, on my knees, not to send me away, I was told that he had left the country, and that, having lost all his money, I was dependent in future upon Mrs. Detheredge for a home."That was eight years ago, but in all that time I have never seen him, and never heard a word from him or of him to tell me if he is living or dead. Where he went and what became of him, how he lost him money, and why he forsook me without so much as a parting kiss or a word of farewell, I have never learned. If he lives, he has abandoned me; if he is dead, I know not when nor where nor how he died. I only know that he dropped out of my life forever, and that it became unspeakably wretched from that hour.""The rapscallion!" exclaimed old Catharine indig-

nantly. "Faith, he ought to be strung up by the heels for leaving the likes of ye—a sweet, pretty colleen that would glad the heart and the eyes of any man living, and make a king on his throne proud to be the father of ye! Bad luck to him, wherever he is, for a hard-hearted old villain!""You mustn't say that; he was my father, Catharine, and once the tenderest of fathers. I can only think that my mother's loss turned his brain—for he loved her almost to the point of idolatry—and that his dislike and desertion of me were the acts of a madman, no longer conscious of what he did or said."But, there, let us not talk of it any more, Catharine. I mean to think of nothing but happy things to-day, for it is the first day I have had all to myself in three years' time, and I mean to make the most of it. Do you know that in all the two months that have elapsed since Mrs. Detheredge rented this villa for the summer and brought cook and me down from her house in New York, I've never been outside of the garden in the daytime, even for an hour? Of course, Mrs. Detheredge has let me go out for two hours every evening to stroll on the sands and get a breath of the sea air, so I've seen nothing of the place at all, and now to-day I'm going to make up for lost time and see it all—all! There's an old Scotch proverb that says something wonderful always happens to a girl on her eighteenth birthday, and it must be true, for, see what a grand treat has come to me for mine.""I'm thinking that the proverb has to do with greater things than just a holiday, darlin'," returned Catharine, with a wink and a smile. "Mayhap you'll be after meeting with some fine young man who'll come to ye like the prince in the fairy tale and glad the whole life of ye with his love. Birded, ye're blushing like a rose! Troth, then, perhaps ye have met him already, ye sly one—met him in your moonlight walks; and it's him ye're going to see to-day.""Oh, be still, do!" exclaimed Gypsy, blushing furiously. "You are a dreadful tease, Catharine, and—and— Go away! I must begin my dressing, or I'll never get out.""Ah, I hit the nail on the head that time, I take my oath," said Catharine laughingly. "More power to the lucky man, whoever he is, and may the shadow of him never grow less! Blessings on ye, Miss Gypsy, darling, and may ye have the happiest day that ever was."And then, with a wink and a nod, she bustled out of the room and closed the door behind her.Left to herself, Gypsy lost no time in flying to the little cracked mirror above her washstand, and was soon deep in the work of making her toilet.Her dingy gray house dress was speedily exchanged for the crisp, white muslin which Catharine had laid upon the bed, her hair bound back with the primrose ribbon that cook had sent her; and, this being done, she selected some fragrant white roses and old-fashioned English marigolds from the gardener's bouquet, and, with deft fingers, arranged them into a charming knot.Dark as some tropical goddess, with deep hazel eyes, a complexion of old ivory flushed with tints of rose, hair of ebon hue, a lovely scarlet mouth, and a slim, girlish figure full of graceful curves, and as perfectly proportioned as any statue that was ever carved, Gypsy Meredith was fair to look upon, as she stood there with the summer sunshine streaming in upon her and touching tenderly her dark, bowed head.There were no elements of a tragedy in her lovely face and her beautiful dusky eyes; nothing to show that with the dawning of this day her feet stood upon the threshold of the strangest, most romantic fate that ever fell to the lot of woman."There, I think they are arranged becomingly, now, she said, stepping back to view in her mirror the

flowers she had pinned upon her breast. "How good of old Thomas to send them to me, and how sweet of Catharine to 'do up' my dress. I do want to look nicely to-day, so that he won't be ashamed of me"—coloring vividly as she spoke that personal pronoun. "Just fancy old Catharine being wise to guess about him, when I thought it was such a secret and felt so sure that nobody ever would guess!" she added, with a soft, low laugh. "If it were anybody else I'd be afraid that Aunt Linda and Cousin Ada would hear of it, but with dear old Catharine the secret's as safe as safe can be.""There, now"—pinning on a broad-brimmed hat, which was one of Miss Ada's "cast-offs," and which, by dint of scrubbing and bleaching and retrimming, had been made to look almost as good as new—"I'm all ready at last, thank fortune! and now to be off as quickly as possible, for Hamilton will think I never am coming, after all the preparation he has made for this lovely day."Saying this, she stole a last peep at her radiant reflection in the old, cracked mirror, caught up her little, cheap sunshade, and ran lightly out of the room.A song was on her lips as she tripped gayly down the stairs, and a song was in her happy young heart—youth's glad, sweet song of love and life's awakening—and all the world seemed full of sunshine and roses, and she was so happy she could have cried for very joy. Onward she ran, trilling away in her gladness like a captive bird set free.Suddenly a door to the right of the passage flew open, she collided suddenly with some one in a splendid carriage dress who was coming hastily out, and springing back with a breathless "Oh! I beg pardon," found herself standing face to face with Miss Detheredge."How stupid you are! Can't you look where you are going?" snapped Miss Detheredge angrily. "I

dare say you have knocked my hat and my hair all awry with your blundering, you little idiot!" putting both hands up to her gleaming, golden tresses. "But there! it's lucky I met you anyhow, I suppose, for in another moment you'd have been gone—shirking your work, as usual, and putting me to no end of trouble. Come in here"—leading the way into the room from which she had just issued, and where stood another gorgeous female in a sumptuous carriage dress. "I was just about to send up for you. You can't go out to-day, after all. My dress for the dance at the Casino to-night has just arrived from New York and it's all wrong, and you'll have to sit down and alter it at once. So you can take off your hat and begin work on it right away."CHAPTER II.
"A LAD TO WOO."Had a thunderbolt suddenly descended through the roof, poor Gypsy could not have been more surprised."Oh!" she cried out in a voice of unutterable pain, all the bright color dying out of her face; all the sparkle vanishing from her eyes and her lips twitching as though she were about to break down and cry. "Oh, it's too mean! it's too cruel! after you promised me I should go, and I've been looking forward to it for so long! Oh, Cousin Ada! Oh, Aunt Linda! you can't really mean it!""Hold your tongue!" snapped Miss Detheredge angrily. "You've been told often enough that you are not to, address my mother and me in that way. There's the dress'—pointing to a shimmering mass of azure satin and jeweled embroidery that lay on a sofa. "It's perfectly scandalous the way Madame Bellrobe has put on the trimming and arranged the sleeves. You know what will be the most becoming to me, so you can sit down and make the alterations while mamma and I are out. We are going to drive over to lunch and spend the day with Mrs. Astervelt, so we shan't be home until dusk; and as I don't wish the gown soiled you may sit in here and alter it."Poor Gypsy! She had been fighting hard to keep back the tears, but now she could hold them in check no longer."It is mean of you! Mean! mean! mean!" she burst out suddenly. "You know very well that you promised me this holiday; you know very well that I have been counting on it and looking forward to it for weeks and weeks, and now at the last minute you cheat me out of it like this! I've worked for you like a drudge, like a slave, for eight long years, and this is

how you pay me. I won't give up my holiday! I won't alter the dress! You have heaps and heaps of others that you could wear if this one doesn't suit you, and I won't do it! I won't! I won't!""Very well, then," put in Mrs. Detheredge. "That is an end to everything, and I wash my hands of you entirely. Impertinence and insubordination are things that I will not tolerate in a servant. You are discharged, and can go at once!""Go!" gasped Gypsy, growing suddenly pale. "Go where, Mrs. Detheredge, I have no money, no home, no friends. Where then shall I go if you cast me, adrift like this?""That is your affair, not mine," responded Mrs. Detheredge coldly. "I have done my duty, and more than my duty, by you. I have fed, sheltered, and clothed you for eight years; now you may do these things for yourself in future, and do them the best you can. Come, Ada, we cannot waste our whole morning. The carriage is at the door and we must be going. If the girl wishes to continue in my service she knows what she must do to retain her position. If she will not do it, then she must go, and go at once. All is said in that."And so the brief interview ended. Without so much as a backward glance at Gypsy, who stood, pale, forlorn, trembling, with quivering lips and tear-filled eyes, mother and daughter walked out and left her to fight her battle alone."To think of her daring to defy us," said Miss Detheredge, as they stepped into the waiting carriage and were bowled swiftly away through the bright morning sunshine. "She never had spirit enough to do such a thing before! She has been acting quite like another creature of late, mamma. She is never 'blue' and silent and submissive, as she used to be before we came to Newport, but always singing like a bird—quite as though she had some secret reason for

believing that a good time is coming for her. Oh, you don't think that she suspects, do you? You don't believe that she has obtained any clew to the way we have victimized her? Or—or"—this with a little gasp of terror, as she laid a nervous hand on her mother's arm—"or that her father still lives and she has managed in some way to get word from him without our knowledge? It would be a bad thing for us if it were true, but—but—you don't think it can be, do you?""No, I don't," responded Mrs. Detheredge, paling under her rouge.  "I wish you wouldn't suggest such disagreeable things, Ada! My brother Geoffrey is dead—there cannot be the slightest doubt about that, or I should have heard something from him in all these years.""I hope so," responded Ada, under her breath. "It would be a terrible thing for us if here to come back before I am married and settled. The exposure would be quite sufficient to lose all our friends and to turn Hamilton Spread against me."I believe I could kill Gypsy Meredith if such a thing as that were to happen," she continued. "I love Hamilton Spread, if you care to know it—love him as I never did and never could love any one before, and without consideration of his wealth. And I'd rather marry him than any other man living. If he had not a crust or a penny I'd rather be his wife than the mistress of millions.""Don't talk like a fool, Ada!" exclaimed Mrs. Detheredge, frowning. "The idea of a woman of your age becoming sentimental! You are twenty-seven years old, not a silly child of fifteen. Besides, what do you know if this Englishman that you should rave over him in this fashion? He came her suddenly from nobody knows exactly where, a day or two before our own arrival; he has the manners and appearance of a gentleman; he is remarkably handsome and

appears to be fabulously rich. Apart from that, neither you nor anybody else knows a thing about him. He may be an adventurer seeking a rich wife, and a fine outlook that would be for you, wouldn't it?""Fine or not, I mean to win him if I can," responded Ada doggedly. "Once upon a time money was everything to me; but I didn't know what love was then, and now I do.""It is almost a pity," retorted her mother, "for if you are alluding to the time when you coaxed and cajoled me into letting you go to Europe in the hope of finding a rich husband, I can tell you that it has always been a mystery to me what you did during that year abroad, and how you failed to capture that rich English lord whom you met in Italy. You wrote me he was so devoted to you that your success was absolutely certain. What was his name, now? I have forgotten.""So have I," responded Ada, looking away so that the pallor of her
face might not be observed by her mother's sharp eyes. "The fellow
turned out to be an adventurer, and—and—well, he
disappeared suddenly and nothing more was heard of him. But there!
let us change the subject, mamma. You have a peculiar knack of
bringing up disagreeable things when one wants to think only of pleasant ones. That scoundrel is dead and gone, thank fortune, and it's a good plan to let the dead rest.""Oh, he is dead, is he?""I don't know; how should I? I suppose he is. He deserves to be, at all events. It's nothing to me, however, one way or the other.""I hope so," responded her mother; "but," she added, under her breath, "I have always had my suspicions and I always shall."Then she lapsed into silence and sat watching narrowly the pale, averted face of her daughter throughout the remainder of her ride.For one moment after her aunt and cousin left her poor Gypsy stood there in the pretty sitting room of the villa, and spoke never a word, made never a sound;
then, as she heard the carriage drive away, and realized that there was now no hope of Mrs. Detheredge being moved to pity and revoking her cruel determination, she broke down utterly, and, dropping into a seat, burst into tears like a heartbroken child."Oh, it is cruel! it is unjust! it—it is shameful!" she sobbed, in her wretchedness and disappointment. "All my holiday gone—destroyed—and I have looked forward to it so long! I have been counting the days and hours that should bring it to me for weeks and weeks, and now it is all gone, all taken away from me like this; and in spite of the sunshine, in spite of the lovely time that Mr. Spread has promised me, it is to be no different from any other day, after all."Here a fresh burst of tears choked her voice, and for several minutes the sound of her suppressed sobbing was the only thing that disturbed the stillness of the room."It won't do any good to cry over it," she thought, as she dried her tears, and, rising, laid aside her hat and sunshade. "I've lost it, as I have lost every other bright dream of my life. Fate seems set against me in everything. I daren't defy Aunt Linda and go in spite of her edict, for she would never let me come into the house again; and if she were to turn me adrift Heaven knows what would become of me! I haven't a penny of my own. So I must alter the dress as I have been ordered, and Hamilton will wait for me in vain at the place where I promised to meet him."But perhaps if I work fast I could finish it before the day is all gone, and perhaps Hamilton will wait there until I can come. I know that I would do so for him."Inspired by this hope, she did not even stop to change her pretty white muslin dress for her work-

aday garments, but sat down close to the window just as she was, and, taking up Miss Detheredge's dainty ball robe, began with feverish haste, ripping off the offending trimming from the bodice, and clipping out the sleeves preparatory to remodeling them after a more becoming fashion.The room in which she sat was on the ground floor of the villa, and through its open, rose-wreathed and curtained windows came odorous breezes from the garden, mingled with the brisk, salt smell of the sea, and not a hundred yards distant the fashionable morning parade of vehicles and equestrians went trooping by to the clanking of silver-mounted harness.But Gypsy had neither eyes nor ears nor thought for any of these things now. All her energies were devoted to the task of completing the work she had in hand, and her eager fingers flew so fast and her mind was so intent upon her duties, that she did not notice how rapidly the time slipped by or that the sun had long since crossed the meridian and it was now afternoon.She was working, working, working like the little drudge she was—working and trying to keep back the rebellious tears that would rise to her eyes every time she thought of Mr. Hamilton Spread and her lost holiday—working so earnestly that she did not notice the tall, masculine figure that came stalking across the lawn with a stride that spoke of military training; did not hear the footstep that came up the terrace and across the tiled veranda, and was quite unaware of any other presence than her own until a handsome face appeared at the window and a pleasant voice exclaimed quite close to her:"Good afternoon, Cinderella Is this the way you usually keep your appointments, may I ask?"Gypsy gave a little start and sprang up, as she fact and recognized the intruder."Oh, Mr. Spread!" she gasped, part in pleasure and part in dismay. "Is it really and truly you?""It is really and truly I," he answered, with a smile that made his frank, handsome face appear handsomer, if possible, than ever. "But you needn't wear that frightened look, Miss Gypsy, for I know that the house is deserted and its estimable tenants gone out for a drive. I saw your aunt and your cousin"—Gypsy had taken him into her confidence and sworn him to secrecy upon that point long ago—"driving by the place where I was waiting for you, three good hours ago, and growing impatient when there seemed no likelihood of your coming to meet me, I took advantage of their absence and came to meet you instead.""Oh, but you mustn't!" gasped Gypsy, in dismay."Oh, but I have!" he answered, with a laugh. "Nobody ever said
'must not' to the prince in the fairy tale when he came to deliver the
imprisoned princess—that is, nobody but the dragons who guarded
her,and in this instance they are off duty, Miss Gypsy; so what a
prince in a fairy tale could do I reckon that a twentieth-century
six-footer, with a will of his won and a determination to succeed, can do also if he tries, and voila! I am here to do it. I'm not a fairy prince, I know—a deuce of a long way from it when it comes to that—but, all the same, I'm going to rescue you from captivity and run off with you for the day, in spite of all the aunts and cousins in Christendom."Gypsy gave a little gasp of mingled ecstasy and despair at this and looked at him with adoring eyes. It was quite a new experience to have somebody taking risks and doing valiant deeds for her sake, and it wasn't strange that, handsome as she had always thought him, he seemed almost like a god in her eyes just then.And he was handsome—a great, tall, broad-shouldered, soldierly young man of five-and-twenty years,

with the ruddy coloring of perfect health, thick, closely cropped, tawny hair that would have curled if had let it, frank, steadfast blue eyes that had an honest trick of looking you straight in the face at all times, and a splendid mouth."Come, now, clap on your hat and let's be 'over the hills and far away,' Miss Gypsy," he said gayly. "We've lost the best part of the day as it is, but we're not going to lose any more of it; so put on your hat and come, for my machine is at the gate and we must be off without delay.""Oh, but I can't do it—I—I daren't do it, Mr. Spread," protested Gypsy miserably. "I'd like to—oh, ever and ever so much, but—but my work won't be done for a long time yet, and I can't go until it is. You see, I've got Cousin Ada's bodice to alter for the dance to-night, and I daren't go until it's done."And with this brief preface she told him all that had happened and why it was that she had failed to meet him at the appointed place."So that's how they serve you, is it?" he said, his face darkening and hardening as he spoke. "In order that that wax doll may look well to-night they deprive you of your holiday after promising you so long that you should have it. Well, then, we'll show them a trick worth two of that, Mademoiselle Cinderella"—his face brightening again and his blue eyes emitting an amused twinkle—"for you shall have your holiday in spite of them, and they shan't be a whit the wiser. Here! give me your work basket," reaching in and appropriating it. "Now, then, put on your hat and bundle up that bodice and all the fal-lals that belong to it and follow me.""Goodness gracious, Mr. Spread! where?""To the motor, of course, you unsophisticated little witch. I'm going to drive you out over the hills and dales, just as I promised to do, and you're going to take your sewing with you and finish it out there—

with me—among the green fields and trees and flowers that you have been wanting so long to see."It was in vain for Gypsy to protest; he had captured her workbasket and would not give it up, and so nothing was left her but to obey.Blushing with delight, she took up her hat and tied it on again, pinned up the bodice and its trimmings in a clean towel, and in another minute was racing over the lawn with him in the direction of the waiting motor car."Oh, it is lovely! lovely! lovely!" breathed Gypsy enthusiastically, as they scudded along past the bright sea, through the quaint town and then into the deep, still woodland roads, where the trees formed a green arch above them, the birds sang in the hedges and the wild flowers dotted the grassy slopes beyond. "Oh, Mr. Spread! I'm afraid I shall never get the bodice done, for I can't keep my eyes off the scenery long enough to take a stitch.""Don't try, then," he answered laughingly. "At least, don't try yet. You won't be able to do much, I fear, while we are traveling along like this. But after a bit we shall come to a resting place that I have in my mind's eye, and perhaps you will succeed better then. Talk to me for the present; I love to look into your bright, sparkling face and to feel that I have done something to make you happy.""You have, indeed, Mr. Spread," responded Gypsy, blushing and dropping her shy, sweet eyes before the steadfast look of his. "You have been awfully good and kind to me ever since the night you strolled out from the dance into the gardens and found me crouching there and looking in at the guests, and I am, oh! so grateful to you for all the happy, happy, hours you have given me since then. I can't see why you ever wanted to become friendly with such a little nobody as I, and why you have taken such pains to make me happy."He was still looking at her, deeply, earnestly, and with emotion."Shall I tell you why, Gypsy? You will let me call you Gypsy, will you not? Shall I tell you why I wanted to be friendly with you? Why I have met you so frequently upon the sands at night? Why I am here with you to-day? It is because I love you, dear!""Oh, Mr. Spread!""I love you!" he went on ardently. "I loved you from the moment I saw you then, crouching among the flowers, a poor, forlorn little outcast, but in my eyes the sweetest and the fairest of womankind. I loved you then, Gypsy; I love you now, my darling, and I shall love you and only you till the day I die. Sweet, I didn't mean to say this to you to-day, although I did mean to say it to you some time. But I can't keep the words back any longer; I can't keep the secret hidden another moment. I love you, Gypsy—I love you with all my heart. Won't you give your life into my keeping, dear? Won't you be my wife? Won't you try to love me in future?""I don't have to try," said Gypsy, with a little throb in her voice, as she felt his arm around her. "I guess I've learned already, and I'm never going to forget it again all the days of my life.""My love! my queen!" he cried out suddenly.The motor car ran on for a good mile without any hand to guide it, and when at length Gypsy and her lover came out of their trance of bliss enough to give their thoughts to sublunary affairs, they had reached a deep, sweet dell between the hills, the "resting place" which Mr. Spread had in his mind's eye."Jump out, my darling," he said, and, springing down, he took Gypsy in his strong arms and lifted her out as lightly as though she were a feather. "We are going to picnic here in this fairy glade and toast our newly found happiness in sparkling Moselle."And with this he drew forth from beneath the seat

a great hamper, that made Gypsy stare with amazement when he opened it and revealed the store of good things it contained."Oh, let me set the table," said she, as he produced a white cloth and spread it upon the soft green grass. Then, in a sort of awe at the number of dainties, he handed out one after the other, she proceeded to lay the plates and get everything in order for the repast."Now, then, fall to, Mademoiselle Cinderella, and don't stare at those fruits and jellies as though you didn't believe they were real, he said, as he carved off several slices from the breast of a cold fowl and laid them on the plate before here. "Here, let me help you to some of the dressing and a morsel of this guava jelly. Now, then, hold up your glass while I fill it with Moselle, and we'll drink long life and happiness to the future Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton Spread. It's a beast of a name, isn't it, my darling?"He glanced over at her with an amused twinkle in his eyes."Well, it isn't a very pretty one," said gypsy naïvely, as she set down her glass and looked shyly up at him, "but then it's yours, and anything would be mine that belonged to you. But maybe that's because I love you so much," she added, with a shy, sweet blush. "I shouldn't care if you were called Mr. Mickey Dooley so long as it was you. Anything would be sweet to me so that it came to me through you.""Even poverty?" he said, leaning over and kissing her. "What would you say if I were to turn out a blessed humbug, Gypsy, and not what I represent myself to be at all? What would you say if my position here were a sham one? What would you say if it were to be discovered that instead of being a rich man I was a very, very poor one, and had only my palette and a paint box to keep a roof over my head?"He was watching here eagerly as he said this, very

eagerly and very intently, but for all that there was an amused twinkle in his steadfast blue eyes."I should say it was very wrong of you to live as you do live, then, and to spend money on a costly luncheon like this," she answered gravely."Nothing more? Would you say nothing more that that? Having won the love of a supposed rich man, would you say no more than that if you found out that he was really very poor? Would you be content to live with him in a humble cottage—the very humblest of cottages—and wear cotton gowns, and do your own housework, and live plainer and eat even meaner food that your aunt gives you as it is? Would you be willing to do that, Gypsy? Would you, dear?""Yes, and do it gladly for your sake," she answered artlessly, looking up at him with adoring eyes. "No lot would be a hard one so that it was shared with you, and, besides, I am better fitted for a poor man's wife than for a rich one's, and it will almost make me glad if you are poor, for then I can work for you and do for you with my own hands, and you'll always know that it is just you I love—you, and nothing else.""You little enchantress! you little gem!" he exclaimed enthusiastically, as he caught her to his heart and covered her sweet face with kisses. "My darling, you are the queen of women, and I love you—oh, I love you!"CHAPTER III.
A CRUEL AWAKENING.How the rest of that happy day passed Gypsy Meredith was never able to tell, for it flew upon magic wings and faded like a brief, sweet dream. All that she ever remembered of it was that she sat and stitched away on Miss Detheredge's bodice, while Mr. Spread lay stretched out on the grass at her feet and talked to her of love and loving and the happy future that awaited them when their two lives should be merged into one. Then all of a sudden she looked up and found the sun setting and the sky all crimson with its dying splendor."Oh!" she gasped, springing up in alarm as she made this discovery; "oh! we must be going back at once. Do look! it is sunset, and it will be almost dark before I get home; and what will Cousin Ada say if she returns and finds me and the bodice both missing. She'll think I've stolen it and ran away. Do let us go back. I've only a little bit more to do, but I can finish that in the machine."Thus admonished Mr. Spread sprang to his feet and began forthwith to bundle the things back into the hamper, with the result that it was soon repacked and shoved back under the seat, and everything was in readiness for the journey home. A moment later they were speeding back under the arching trees, and the lengthening shadows were shutting in softly about them.So long as the light lasted, Gypsy stitched away at the bodice while she listened in rapt silence to her lover's talk, but, though her nimble fingers view fast, too much time had been wasted in the beginning, and darkness overtook her before her work was finished."Oh, dear! I can't see to set another stitch, and what will Cousin Ada say if the bodice isn't finished in time for her to wear it to-night?" she said despairingly, as she finally; gave up trying to work upon it and pinned it up in the towel again. "She will be so angry I'm afraid she will make Aunt Linda send me away, and then I shall be quite homeless.""We'll see about that," responded Mr. Spread, with a significant smile. "Miss Detheredge may have more than one surprise to-night, my darling, and—listen here, Gypsy: I've changed my mind about going to the Casino dance to-night—at least, with Miss Detheredge. If either she or your aunt turn you out, come to our accustomed place of meeting on the sands and you'll find me there waiting to receive you, dear, and to give Newport society a surprise that it won't get over in a while. But, upon second thought, come anyhow, my darling, whether your aunt turns you out or not, come at the accustomed hour—nine o'clock. Promise me that you will, little woman, and make me the happiest chap under the sun.""Under the moon, you mean," corrected Gypsy, with a laugh. "Yes, I will come, for I wouldn't miss the chance of being with you for all the money in the world.""Little witch!" he laughed, as he put his arm around her and drew her to him. "See! we are getting near the town again, and we shall have to be more circumspect. Give me one more kiss while there is yet time, my darling, and tell me again that you love me.""I love you!" said Gypsy, as she lifted up her face to his. "I love you better than all the world, and I shall always love you so until I die."And with that prophecy on her lips he stooped and kissed her, and envious Fate launched the bolt which it had all along been reserving.For lo! at that very moment of all others, there came a sudden rush of wheels along a path which in-

tersected theirs at right angles, and in the same instant a carriage swung into view and barely escaped colliding with them as it swept past and vanished. But in the brief moment it had been there in their path, and almost touching their horse's head, Gypsy and Mr. Spread had recognized the two occupants of that carriage, and if any doubt had lingered in their minds that they had recognized them it was set at rest by the sound of Miss Detheredge's voice saying, in sharp, stinging tones, as she flashed by and left them:"Good evening, Mr. Spread. I didn't know that you had a predilection for servant girls!""Oh, it was Cousin Ada and Aunt Linda!" gasped Gypsy in terror, "and—and they saw you kissing me! Oh, Hamilton! what shall I say to them when they take me to task about this?""Say nothing, my darling," he answered. "Leave me to say all that is necessary to-night at the Casino dance.""But you just now said you were not going there!""Did I? Well, I've just changed my mind, for I am going thee, and you are going with me, sweet.""I, Hamilton—I?""Yes, you, dear, and going as my wife! Thank fortune that in this blessed country of your one can be married at any hour and at a moment's notice, and that no license is required save that which is vested in the clergyman and the desire of loving hearts. You must marry me to-night, Gypsy. I will not take no for an answer. You must marry me to-night, my darling, and after the ceremony is over we will go to the Casino ball together and give Mrs. Detheredge and her daughter—yes, and all Newport as well—a sensational surprise that will be a nine days' wonder.""But, Hamilton—I—I am not fit to go among such fine folk as will be there, and, besides, I have no dress to wear at such a grand affair as that.""Haven't you? Then I will get one at once—I

mean borrow one for you from a friend of mine, little sweetheart; and if you do not outshine every other beauty in the room and make your husband the most envied of men, set me down for a false prophet and never believe anything I tell you again. And now, as it is getting dark and the shops may close if I am not off at once—""The shops?""Yes; I have some few purchases to make for myself. You won't mind, will you, dear, if as soon as we reach the Ocean Parade I set you down and leave you to walk the rest of the way while I hurry off to the shops?"Gypsy answered him that she would not, and set his mind at rest upon that score; and so it came to pass that twenty minutes later she found herself standing alone on the Parade and watching her lover as he drove off under the glitter of the electric lights.But there was plenty to be done upon it before the bodice was finished, and so it fell out that quite an hour and a half had passed ere the last stitch was set and her long task concluded."There; perhaps they won't be so angry with me now," she said to herself, as she pinned it up in the towel, and, rising, began to trudge homeward to her aunt and cousin. "Oh, goodness! but I do fell awfully afraid about the other thing, and I do wish that Hamilton had said that I could tell them.""But he hadn't, and so nothing was left her but to hold her peace."Slowly and with a sinking heart she trudged on through the darkness until the Detheredge villa loomed up before her, and then, just as she reached out her hand to open the gate, somebody whirled it open, sprang out and clutched her.It was Catharine, the laundress, and in a state of the wildest excitement."Oh, ye blessed little darling, ye! wherever have ye 

been?" she cried excitedly. "Sure, it's everywhere I've been seekin' ye, and lookin' about till the two eyes of me are fit to drop out of my head with staring. Musha! but it's the lucky one ye are, and the divil's diversion that's been kicked up indoors this night! Hurroo! but do ye mine that the mistress—bad scran to her!—has got the high strikes and has been carried off to bed screamin', and that Miss Ada—divil fly away with her!—has gone rushing out into the garden, and the last myself seen of her sure she was pulling at her hair in a way that'll make her as bald as any egg if she doesn't leave over doing it! And why not? says you, for by the token of that it's your own father that has come back and is waiting to see ye in the summer-house forninst!""My father!" gasped Gypsy, almost swooning with joy and surprise. "My father come back to me, do you say?""Troth, I do, then, and come back to ye as he left ye—rich! For do ye mind that the money the mistress and her daughter have been spending so freely was for ye only—for ye!—and themselves have divil a cent of their own at all, at all. But fly to your father, darlin', dear; fly to him as fast as the two pretty feet of ye can go, for it's in the summerhouse by the sea that himself is waiting for ye, and that mad with the treatment ye have received, that he was nigh to burst with rage!"Gypsy waited to hear no more. With feet that scarcely seemed to touch the ground she flew to the little summerhouse to which she had been directed, and sprang breathlessly in."Father!" she cried out rapturously, as a tall, handsome, gray-haired man rose and caught her in his arms. "Oh, father! it is you! it is! it is! for I have not forgotten you, and I have waited for your coming, oh! so long!""Gypsy! my poor, wronged child, my pool ill-used

little girl!" he said huskily, as he caught her to his bosom and covered her face with kisses. "Oh! to think how you have been victimized by your aunt and cousin, and all the while I believed you were being so well taken care of and enjoying every luxury! I will never forgive them for it—never!""What does it all matter now that you have come back to me, father?" said Gypsy, with a little catch in her voice. "I don't want riches; I don't want anything but you, father—you, whom my own dear mother loved so fondly, and who must be happy to-night looking down and seeing us united at last."To her surprise her father put her out of his arms almost roughly and faced her with a look so full of bitterness and wrath that it made her very soul quail."Hush!" he said sternly. "Never mention that woman's name again! Never speak of her in my presence if you do not wish me to hate you!""Father!""I mean it, every word of it! You think that she died faithful to me? You think that she is in her grave? She is not. She lives—lives somewhere in this hateful world, and with the man who lured her from me ten years ago. She did not die—would she had! She fled from me—fled with an old lover—fled, a lost, dishonest, faithless wife, and through all these years I have been seeking her and him, that I may have vengeance upon them and wipe out in that man's blood the shameful wrong he has done me!"Stricken dumb by this dreadful revelation, Gypsy uttered no cry; only pressed her hands and stood like a statue."The time has come when you may at last know the truth!" resumed Geoffrey Meredith bitterly; "and know why for ten years I have been a wanderer upon the face of the earth. Long years before I met your mother she had had, as I knew, an English admirer—a young artist of excellent family but little means.But circumstances had compelled that man to give up the girl he loved and marry a woman of his own race and land—a woman of wealth; and by the aid of that wealth he was enabled to rise in the world."In the first year of their married life that woman bore him a son, and in the fifth year she died, leaving him a wealthy widower. Once again he revisited America and sought out his original love, only to find, after years of searching for her, that she was my wife and the mother of my child."I won't weary you with a long story, Gypsy. I will only tell you that your mother acted well her part; that she appeared to have contempt for him, and that, at her request, I informed her whilom lover that he was no longer welcome at my house. He left the country shortly after, and from that day to this I have only once set eyes upon him. I never knew until ten years ago that he returned to London and that that was the reason of your mother's desire to so frequently visit England."You remember that last summer she spent abroad? She spent it with him!""Oh, no! oh, no! It cannot be, father! It cannot be!""It is the truth I tell you, for when I unexpectedly joined her there I found her with that man, and I would have killed him had I been suffered to do so. But she assisted him to escape—she, my false wife! assisted him and prevented my following and slaying him by throwing her arms about me and shrieking out that I had wronged her and that it was all a mistake. What and idiot she must have thought me! All a mistake, when I had found them there together! I my fury thrust her from the house and bade her never enter it again, and the, having overtaxed myself, fell down in a swoon."When consciousness returned to me, remorse seized upon my soul. I tried to tell myself that perhaps I

had misjudged her; perhaps it was a mistake, after all. But she had gone—gone—and two days after I learned that her lover had gone also—flown to the Continent, and in company with her. There was no mistake about that. They had been seen driving to the railway station together, seen  and recognized by people who knew them both; and with that knowledge all hope faded out of my heart. Since then I have sought them everywhere, but without success. Clew after clew I have followed, only to find it a false one and to be no nearer to them now than ever."It was the sight of that man's name in an American paper that has brought me here, and if it be not a false clew also, I am at last on the track of Hamilton Spread!""Hamilton Spread!" gasped Gypsy, clutching at his arm. "Oh, father! father! was that the man's name?""Yes," he answered fiercely. "Father and son bear the one accursed name, and it is not such a common one that a man may easily mistake it. And I may be on the track at last! Father and son—I'll kill them both if I find them—kill them and stamp that hated name off the face of the earth!"CHAPTER IV.
THE SHADOW IN THE MOONLIGHT.So it was told—that dreadful story of the past, that history which had cast such a shadow over Gypsy's young life and was to cast an even darker one over the days to come! Hearing it, it seemed to her as though all the brightness and beauty went suddenly out of the moonlit sky, and life and the world became in one moment dark, desolate, empty. But she spoke no word, uttered no cry; only stood there and stared—stared with wide, unseeing eyes into her father's pale face. Through her reeling brain there rang and rang again, with tireless persistency, as though her aching heart would never have done torturing itself, the one terrifying sentence: "His name is Hamilton Spread!"But still she did not speak, did not move, only stood there as though all the springs of life had suddenly dried up within her; as though she had looked upon the fabled Gorgon's head and been changed to senseless stone. And over the sea, and across the sands, and up to the grassy slope to the little summerhouse where she stood, came creeping, creeping, the steely light of the rising moon, until it struck full upon her and brought out with startling vividness her rigid figure, her white, deathlike face, and the look of bewildered pain in her dark, dilated eyes.Something in the awful look of that white face and those expanded eyes made Geoffrey Meredith catch his breath sharply and spring to her as though he feared she was about to fall."Gypsy!" he cried out, in a startled voice; "Gypsy, my child! Good Heaven! you look as though you were dying!"At the sound of his voice, at the touch of his hand,

the icy spell which had enthralled her seemed to melt suddenly, and she shrank from him as though he were already a murderer."Don't touch me! Don't come near me!" she panted, in a husky voice of horror. "You have murdered my hopes, slaughtered my peace and all that was bright and beautiful in my life, and nothing you can bring me now will repay me for what you have taken away.""Was your mother's memory so dear to you as all that?" he cried bitterly."Dear to me? Yes! yes!" she answered, in a wild, bewildered sort of way. "It was the one bright dream of my lonely life, the one sweet star that shone out before me always until he—	 Ah! yes! yes! yes!"—catching herself up quickly and growing wild with terror as she saw how nearly she had betrayed a secret which she now knew must be kept forever from this bitter, revengeful man—"yes, her memory was the dearest thing in all the world to me, and now you have torn down the idol and trampled it under foot."Oh, do not be angry with me for my wild words just now," she went on, coming nearer and nervously laying one trembling hand upon his sleeve. "I—I am scarcely accountable for what I say. I have suffered so much in my short life. I have had so many cruel things to stand that—that the blasting of my dead mother's memory was like the last drop in the cup and—and I think I must have gone mad for the instant.""My poor Gypsy! It is hard, I know it," he said huskily, as he took her into his arms and softly kissed her white face. "I know what you suffer, my child, for I, too, have suffered it; and death itself would have been sweeter than the shattering of that beautiful dream. I, too, had made an idol of her, Gypsy; I, too, held her little lower than the angels, and when the discovery of her perfidy came, it almost killed me.""But was it true?" said Gypsy, in a thin, eager voice."Was it not possible that you wronged her, as she said, and that he—that man—was nothing to her—nothing, nothing at all? Oh, father! father! surely you were in error! surely it was all a mistake! Oh, surely it was!""Would it were possible to think so!" he made answer. "But her flight to the Continent in company with her lover put an end to that hope. Have you forgotten that I told you they were seen going away together—seen by people who knew them both and could not therefore make a mistake in their identity? No, there has been no error, Gypsy." His face darkened and hardened in the moonlight until the expression of it made her shudder. "She was false to me—
cruelly and shamefully false, and I will never rest until I find the man who blighted my life and ruined my honor if I search for him to the Judgment Day. 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a life for a life' was the good old Mosaic law, and I will live up to the strict letter of it, though it should cost me my immortal soul! If Hamilton Spread and his son are upon the face of the earth I will search until I find them, and have judgment! judgment! judgment!""But why against the son, father—ah, Heaven! why against the son? He has not sinned against you! he has done no harm! Why, then, should you visit your revenge upon him? Ah! it is cruel, it is wicked to punish the innocent for the sins of the guilty, and what has Hamilton Spread's son done to you that you should punish him for his father's misdeeds?""He bears the same name as that father, and I tell you I will never rest until that hated name is stamped off the face of the earth!" he answered vindictively. "Besides, has it not been written that the sins of the parents shall be visited upon the children, even unto the fourth generation?""But not such sins as this, father—not such sins as this. You are deliberately perverting the words of

Scripture to your own ends, and Heaven will not countenance such a cruel deed as this of which you speak.""Nevertheless, I will do it!" he responded, doggedly. "Only once let me get upon the track of either or both of those men and you shall see. Good Heaven! it comes hard to have you espousing their cause; you, my own flesh and blood, who should hate them as I hate them. But for them you would never have known the life of wretchedness which has been yours for the past ten years! But for them your youth would have been one of sunshine and happiness, and I wonder that the thought of that does not inspire you with a feeling of deathless hatred for them. They took from us all that the world holds dear, Gypsy—love, happiness, peace—and hand in hand we will go forth and hunt them down, my dear! hunt them down and pay them back misery for misery and blow for blow. Or, if you will not—""Hush! don't speak in that bitter tone; don't look at me like that. I have not said that I will not, father, but—but I must know more of them, and you have told me so pitifully little as yet—only that they bear the same name and that the father was an artist. Is the son an artist, too?" This with a sinking heart as she remembered her lover's words on that day about the possibility of his having nothing but his palette and brushes to keep the wolf from the door. "Tell me what he is like, this son who bears his father's name. Oh, tell me! tell me, that I may know him, should we ever meet.""I know nothing of the son save that he was a tall, fair-haired youth in those days, for I have never seen him since. He must now be a man grown—a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, and if he has fulfilled the promise of his boyhood he must be exceptionally handsome, as his father was before him."Gypsy made no response, but her lips moved soundlessly, as though she were silently praying.Twenty-five years of age; tall, fair, and exceptionally handsome!The last gleam of hope seemed to die out of her heart as she thought of those words and of the man whose description they fitted so well; and in her mind's eye her lover's splendid face arose before her.For a moment she stood breathless, strengthless, pale, and looked blankly before her; then, without a hint or warning, she broke down suddenly and began to sob and cry like a beaten child."Gypsy, my dear! Good heavens! what is the meaning of this?" exclaimed her father, startled by this sudden outburst and moving toward her with anxiety in his face and voice. "Child! child! what has come over you that you should weep like this?""It is nothing—nothing!" she answered, retreating from him, as if afraid of his very touch. "It is terrible to have my ideal shattered like this and to learn that the mother whose memory I have worshiped—oh, don't mind me! don't worry over me! I think I should go mad if I could not cry! Let me think it out alone—alone. Let me try to reconcile myself to it; let me face the future that is before me and—
Oh! please let me be alone for a time, father! Oh, please do! I cannot talk more about it at present; indeed I cannot, and if you will go into the house and leave me for a little time"I will not enter that house again!" he interposed indignantly. "After the way in which my sister and her daughter have wronged you, my child, I will never forgive them and never enter their home again.""Oh, but you must, father, you must!" responded Gypsy, anxious only to get him out of the way that she might be free to put into execution a plan which had taken shape in her mind. "Think! think! Aunt Linda is your only sister, and if I can forgive her, why not you? Oh, do what I ask of you, father! Surely it is but a little favor to ask after all these years of

separation. Go to my aunt and my cousin and heap coals of fire upon their heads by forgiving them in my name. Tell them it is my wish; tell them, if you choose, that I bade you do this thing. But, oh! tell them nothing of the dark story you have told me to-night, nor ever mention in their hearing the name of that man and his son. Let that be our secret, father, and when we go away from this place in the morning—as I hope and pray we shall do—let us carry that secret with us and begin our life work with the woeful tale untold. Go in, father, for my sake; go in and do this, and in a little time I will rejoin you."Moved though he was by her earnestness, Geoffrey Meredith nevertheless hesitated for a time; but at length her passionate pleading prevailed upon him and he gave her the promise she desired."You shall have your way, Gypsy," he said. "Little as your aunt and cousin deserve such treatment, you shall have your way, dear, and the word forgiveness shall be spoken. My poor Gypsy! my poor, ill-used little girl! Thank Heaven there are brighter days in store for you at last, and—yes, I'll leave you as you wish, dear, but don't keep me long waiting, for you are all I have in the world, Gypsy, and now that we have met again the old heart fires rekindle and I love you as I loved you when a child."And then, pressing a kiss upon her bowed head, he turned away and left her.Until the sound of his footsteps had died away into Silence Gypsy crouched there in the darkness and spoke never a word, uttered never a sound; but when at last she knew that he had gone beyond hearing she flung herself down upon her knees, and laying her folded arms upon one of the wooden seats dropped her head upon them and wept as though her heart would break."Oh, my love! oh, my love! to think it should come to this at last!" she cried out in her misery and despair. "To think that we must be as strangers evermore, and

to think that there should be this bitter awakening
after our dream of joy! He would kill you if he found you, this bitter, revengeful father of mine; and
if he knew that I love you, dear, it would make his malice and his fury doubly severe. But he shan't know! he shan't know, he shan't!" she cried out, suddenly springing to her feet, all wild and white with desperation. "He shall not know, he shall not find you, and he shall not harm one hair of your dear head, my darling, let the cost to me be what it will. I will fly to the trysting place and save you from his malice. I will shield you, dear—shield you and save you from his unholy wrath, and though it break my heart we two shall walk with divided hands from this night evermore."And with these words upon her lips, with that resolution in her heart, she darted out of the summer-house, and, making her way to the sands, ran like a hunted hare in the direction of the spot where her lover was to await her coming.And, lo! as she went a shadow went after her—a shadow that had risen from the gloom, where it had been crouching among the thick vines and flowering shrubs that shut the summerhouse in from the highroad—and, gliding out into the moonlight, stood revealed—Miss Ada Detheredge!Not one word did she speak, but with white, set face and eyes that glittered with malignant light, she crept from one shadow to another, and, keeping out of the gleam of the moon, ran breathlessly on in Gypsy's wake.CHAPTER V.
A CALM DESPAIR.The place where Gypsy kept tryst with her lover was a pretty, picturesque spot, situated about three-quarters of a mile distant from the Detheredge villa, and at a point where the beach was unusually deserted after nightfall, for the area of scattered rocks which surrounded it made it a bad place for walking, even when the tide was out and the moon at its full.Still it was in every way fitted for a lovers' trysting place, for the waves had worn some of the rocks into natural seats and piled up others into a semicircular wall about them—a wall that was festooned with seaweed and spangled with shells—and nothing more romantic than this isolated spot, at low tide, with its barrier of bowlders, its little pools of water, its scattered strips of glimmering, wet sand, and its splendid view of the moon-illumined sea, could well be imagined.It was toward this fairylike spot that Gypsy now bent her eager steps, all unconscious of the shadow that followed."Will he be there—oh, will he be there?" she said to herself as she sped along. "It is earlier, far earlier, than he expects me to come, and if he is not there what shall I do? I dare not go up to the hotel and seek him; I dare not now let anybody know that we are acquainted or risk leaving a clew by which my father may some time learn that my hand has robbed him of his prey. Oh, Heaven! I think I shall go mad with terror if he is not there!"The prayer was answered, for lo! as she scrambled over the rocks and made her way into the sort of natural amphitheater beyond the crescent-shaped wall of

bowlders, some one greeted her with a glad cry, and, glancing up, she saw her lover standing a few yards distant.At sight of her he threw away the cigar he was smoking and came striding toward her with outstretched arms."Welcome, my Cinderella," he said, with a laugh that seemed to stab her like a knife. "I expected this early arrival, so you may set me down as a good prophet at last! No need to confess the truth, for, you see, I have guessed it already. Mrs. Detheredge and her daughter have bundled you out of house and home for this afternoon's affair and you have come to me as you promised. My beloved little sweetheart! my poor, ill-used little Gypsy, we shall give them a surprise this night, I warrant you, for I have procured the dress and	 Gypsy! what has come over you, dear?"For she had shrunk away from his attempted embrace, and, leaning against a bowlder, wildly waved him back. In the gleam of the moonlight he could see that her face was deathly pale and that there was a look of hunted terror in her large, dark eyes."What is it? What is the matter, my darling?" he said, in a voice of alarm, as he again sprang toward her, only, however, to be repulsed a second time. "Why do you shrink from me, sweet, and what has wrought this ghastly change in you? Gypsy, my love, what is it? You look as though you were dying!""I think I am dying—I hope I am," she answered plaintively, "for all the brightness has gone out of my life and the world is desolate—desolate!""Gypsy!""Oh, hush! hush, in pity's name! have no tender thoughts for me; do not touch me, do not come near me again—it is forbidden!""Gypsy!""I mean it! Oh, I mean it! I would rather die

than say the words I have to say to you, now that I know you love me, but—but I have not come to keep my promise of to-day—I have come to say good-by to you eternally, and to tell you that we must part forevermore."He sprang back from her as though she had stabbed him, and in the moonlight she could see his face grew pale."Part!" he echoed, in a hoarse voice. "Part, when you have promised to marry me this very night? Part, when you know that I love you better than anything that earth or heaven holds! Gypsy, what are you saying?""The truth," she answered, in a palpitating voice as she struck her trembling hands together and squeezed them hard. "The wretched, wretched truth, which love has no power to alter and no magic to dispel. I cannot keep my promise; I cannot be your wife to-night. I cannot ever be your wife, dear, and to the last hour of my life we two must walk in separate ways. My father has returned—my father, Hamilton—and—and—he has forbidden our union.""Forbidden our union! Why?""I cannot tell you—I—I dare not tell you!" she answered wildly. "You must never ask me—never! never! never! Only this you may know: An influence has been brought to bear upon him from which there is no escaping, and we must be resigned to his will.""His will! Say rather the spiteful will of your aunt and cousin, who have taken this mean way of avenging themselves upon you and me!" he retorted spiritedly. "Mrs. Detheredge is your father's only sister, and he has listened to her counsel and placed this unjust law upon you. But it shall not be! You hear me? It shall not be! I will not bow to this shameful decree; I will not accept my dismissal like this. I will

go to this father of yours and demand an explanation of him, and—if—""Oh, no! no! no! You must not! You shall not!" broke in Gypsy, in terror, as she clutched wildly at his arm and looked up at him with distended eyes. "Go to my father? Go to him? Oh, Heaven! do you want to drive me mad? You must not see him! you must not see anybody! You must fly, Hamilton! fly for your life, and at once, at once!""Do what?""You must fly!" she repeated wildly; "fly for your life, and without an instant's delay. I—I have not told you all—oh, I dare not tell you all! It is not alone my father you have to dread—I—I—that is, there are other dangers, there are other reasons. Don't ask me how I learned of this, but—but your life is in danger, Hamilton, your life! There is one here in Newport who has bitter reason to wish you in your grave, and who will not shrink from putting you there if you do not elude him by quitting the country at once.""How could you know that?" he demanded, in surprise. "There is only one man in the world who could benefit fit by my death, and he—answer me!" catching her suddenly by the arm. "Have you met that man? Do you know my secret, which I thought nobody in this land suspected? Answer me, on your word of honor, Gypsy. Do you know all about me, when I thought the truth so well hidden? I ask, do you know, And has that man told you?""I know nothing, nothing," she answered, with such a look and tone of amazement that he knew she spoke the truth. "You are talking in riddles, Hamilton. If you have a secret I never dreamed of it before, and I do not know to what man you allude. I only know that your life is in danger, and if you do not go at once you will he slain. And, oh, my darling! my darling! you will fly will you not? Oh! if you love

me ask me nothing, but go! go at once! at once! See!" slipping down in a little, huddled heap and raising her clasped hands to him; "see! I am kneeling at your feet and begging you for my sake to do this thing. Oh! can't you have faith in me? Can't you believe that the blow which lays you dead will drive me mad and put an end to my wretched life? Oh, my darling! my darling! tell me you will fly to-night—fly, and leave no trace behind you. Oh, my love! my love! have pity and say that you will!"For one moment he looked at her as though he doubted her sanity or half suspected that all this was some practical joke, some trick to test him. But even as that thought came to him it was banished as unjust; for there was that in her eyes, and in her whole bearing and manner, which told him she was in dreadful earnest and meant every word she said."I will not ask you when you learned of this absurd thing since you say you cannot tell me," he said as he caught both her hands in his and looked earnestly down into her pale upturned face," but I will tell you, dear, that it is absurd and that you are worrying yourself over a phantom. Ah, yes, you are, Gypsy! You may not think it, but I know that you are. It is true that there is one man in the world who would be made happy by my death, but, though there are people who declare that he is capable of slaying me, I cannot believe that he is bad enough for that; and I have every, reason to feel sure that he is not in America, and, indeed, knows nothing of my present whereabouts. Still, if some one has in some mysterious way been playing upon your credulity until you actually believe my life is in danger and that nothing but instant flight
can avert the peril—""Nothing else can—nothing! nothing!" she broke in wildly. "I tell you I have not been deceived. I tell I you, I swear to you, that your life is in danger, my Darling, and only flight can save you from the

vengeance of the assassin who has sworn to kill you. Oh, Hamilton! Hamilton! promise me that you will fly. By the love you say you bear me, I conjure you to leave this place—leave this land and all the dark perils it holds for you and to go at once! at once! Ah, promise me that you will, my darling! Promise me that you will, and I will pray God to bless you for this mercy to the wretched girl who loves you and would gladly lay down her life for your dear sake, if by doing so she could shield you. Oh, Hamilton, promise me that you will go! promise me that you will, my darling!"For a moment he stood and looked down into her white, agonized face and her beseeching, dark eyes. He could see that she was in dreadful earnest and suffering acutely all the horror of a tortured mind; could see that she believed in his peril and would know no peace until she had reason to believe that he had escaped it by instant flight. And when she again poured forth her agonizing entreaties for him to fly to be saved, he stooped, and, taking her into his arms, folded her close to his heart."My sweet, you are worrying over a phantom," he gently said, as he tenderly stroked her dark hair and kissed her. "You are worrying over a phantom, over a danger which I know does not exist; but if nothing but the promise you ask of me will set your soul at rest, then that promise I will give you.""Oh, Hamilton, God bless you for those words! If you only knew what a weight of agony—""Wait until you have heard me out," he gently interposed. "Yes, I will give you the promise you ask of me, Gypsy, but only upon one condition. If I fly from this place to-night you must fly with me, my darling, and, as man and wife, we will face the future together."She sprang out of his arms with a cry of absolute horror and stood with hands thrust out and eyes that

reflected the anguish and despair that rent her frightened heart."You must live up to your promise if you would have me live up to mine," he went on hurriedly. "All is in readiness for our marriage to-night; the carriage which is to bear us to the house of the clergyman is in waiting a few yards distant, and if I am to fly you must share my flight, dear, and in spite of your father's outrageous command you must go with me as my wife.""Your wife!" she gasped. "Merciful Heaven! you know not what you are asking of me!""I am asking you to crown my love and yours," he responded ardently. "I am asking you to resent the authority of a man who for ten long years has wasted not one thought upon you, and who now, after neglecting you as no father who is worthy of a daughter's respect and love would ever dream of doing, comes back to add insult to injury by commanding you to renounce the man you love and doing all in his power to wreck your innocent life! Gypsy, you owe this father of yours no allegiance after the heartless manner in which he has for so long neglected you, and I, who love you, ask you to fly from his persecutions and become my wife.""Oh, hush! hush!" she cried out in agony. "You must not suggest such a thing! I to marry you after what he has this night said to me? You do not know him! I believe he would kill me, if he thought there was a bare possibility of it! No! no! I can't do what you ask of me! I can't! I can't! Whatever else he may be he is still my father, and I owe him a daughter's obedience.""Is that your final answer?" he asked bitterly. "Are my love and my happiness of so little value in your eyes that you can cast them aside so easily? Ah, I thought you loved me!""I do love you! I do! I do!" she protested wildly.

"I love you so well that it is almost killing me to do this thing, and the thought of giving you up is a thousand times more bitter than death. But, oh! I can't do what you ask of me! I can't! I can't!""Is that your final answer?" he demanded again."Yes, yes, it must be. I have no voice in the matter, no choice but to do this thing, even though it break my heart.""Then if that be so, I refuse to fly," he answered determinedly. "I refuse to run away from this fancied danger, and I refuse to give you up until your father has with his own lips explained to me why he has set his face against our union, and what possible thing he can have against me. If you will not give me the explanation of his refusal, he shall, before I am an hour older!"As he spoke he made a movement as though to walk away and leave her, but with a cry, Gypsy flung herself upon him and clutched him with both hands."No! no! you must not, you shall not!" she panted, in a voice of agony and horror. "Better you should kill me with your own hand than go to that men! Hamilton, Hamilton, for my sake, have pity! Don't do this dreadful thing! don't go near my father! Don't let him see your face! Don't let him hear your name, and don't—oh, Heaven!—don't remain in this place another hour! Oh, love! oh, love! will nothing move you to pity for me? Will nothing prevent you from doing this mad thing?""Yes—the fulfillment of your promise to be my wife to-night," he answered; "your companionship in my flight, and the right to protect you always with a husband's undying love. These things, and only these things, can swerve me from my course; for I swear to you, Gypsy, that if you do not consent I will seek your father this very night and wring the cause of all this mystery from him, since I cannot drag it from you!""Oh, what shall I do? what shall I do?" she answered brokenly."Your duty to yourself, your duty to the man you love and who loves you beyond all the rest of the world," he made reply. "If, as you say, you will know no peace until I have quitted this country, then quit it with me; fly with me to my own land, my own home, and let love make up to you for all that you sacrifice for love's sake. Gypsy, my love, will you sacrifice me at the simple asking of a father who is unworthy of your devotion, and who for ten whole years has sacrificed you, to suit his own selfish ends? Fly with me, dear; fly with me and be my wife, for if you will not I swear to you that I will keep my word and do the thing I have threatened. Speak! Which of us do you choose, your father or me?""Oh, is there no other way?""None! I swear it! Listen: I will give you one minute to decide—one minute, and not a second longer—and one of these two things you must choose. Which shall it be, Gypsy? Will you fly with me now, this very hour, or shall I go to your father and—""No! no! no! Not that, not that! I choose the other course!" she broke in wildly. "Swear to me that you will never ask me to explain this night's mystery to you; swear to me that you will fly from this land without delay, and I will do as you ask.""I swear it!" he responded, baring his head and raising his face to the night sky. "As God hears me, I swear it, my darling, and nothing shall tempt me to break my word!""Then take me," she wailed, creeping into his arms. "Take me away at once, Hamilton, at once; for I will be your wife, and may neither of us ever regret the choice I have made!""My darling!" he said ardently, as he pressed her close to his heart.CHAPTER VI.
A BAD OMEN.Suddenly Gypsy gave a little nervous start and looked up at him like a frightened child."Oh, let us not delay," she said huskily, "for every moment now is fraught with peril, Hamilton, and if my father should become alarmed by my long absence and either send or come in quest of me, Heaven alone knows what might be the result. If we are to go, let us go at once, dear, for oh, I am terribly afraid and shall not know one moment's peace until we have flown from Newport and left no clew behind."Hamilton needed no further urging, for he saw that she was really suffering, and, quickly drawing her hand through his arm, led her out of the trysting place and away from the sight and sound of the restless sea.And, lo! as they went another figure rose up from the shadow of the rocks and went softly after them.It was Ada Detheredge."Where are they going now?" she muttered. "I could not hear one word they said for the noise of the incoming tide, and I was afraid to creep nearer lest they should see or hear me. Would to Heaven I could have heard, for after what my uncle said to Gypsy in the summerhouse to-night, it behooves me to know what their intentions are, that I may have revenge upon her for stealing my love from me, and revenge upon him for throwing me over like this! Have a care, Mr. Hamilton Spread, have a care! The woman who did not shrink from paying her debt to Matthew Sleaford when he wronged and deceived her—like the miserable impostor that he was—will not shrink from paying her debt to you for this day's work, to you and your garret-bred sweetheart—be assured of that.

Where you go to-night I'll track you—and be your ruin if I can."Meantime, all unsuspicious of this spiteful tracker, Mr. Spread and Gypsy hurried on to the quiet spot where the waiting carriage stood, guarded by a ragged urchin posted at the horse's head.Paying and dismissing this boy, Mr. Spread assisted Gypsy into the vehicle, climbed in after her, and, gathering up the reins, drove briskly away.But not before the dark shadow which had followed them all the way from the beach had darted forward and, screened by the hooded top of the carriage, had laid firm hold upon the back of it, and, diving under, curled itself over the rear axle and went speeding with them down the dark, wooded lane which led to the outlying farm lands.For upward of two miles they drove on like this, Gypsy and her lover conversing in low tones, which the jarring of the axle prevented Miss Detheredge from hearing. Then all of a sudden the vehicle swung into a branching road, ran down into a sort of hollow, where a few picturesque cottages were scattered about, then slackened its speed as a sign that it was nearing the journey's end, and finally came to a halt before a little stone church, from the windows of which faint gleams of light were stealing.Amazed and vaguely suspecting the truth by their stopping here, Miss Detheredge had just time to slip down from her uncomfortable perch and dart out of sight behind a neighboring clump of lilac bushes when Hamilton Spread sprang down, and securing the horse to a tree, gave his hand to Gypsy to assist her to alight."Here we are at last, my darling," he said, as he lifted her gently and sat her down on the ground. "And see"—indicating the lighted windows of the church—"they are already awaiting us, I think. I came here and made all arrangements for the cere-

mony directly after I left you this evening, and it would have been a pity, would it not, if we had disappointed the clergyman and the witnesses, when they have been so prompt as this. What a pretty little church it is, isn't it, dear? It will be a lovely picture to remember whenever we recall our wedding time."It was a lovely picture—lovely enough to have been put upon canvas—the little stone church, with its pointed portico all wreathed with clusters of white and crimson roses, that twisted and climbed all over the building until the windows appeared to shine out of one vast hill of foliage and flowers, and even the little golden cross above the doorway was half lost in the wilderness of blossoms that twined above and about it and hung in scented rafts of white and crimson bloom until the freighted branches swept the earth and dipped their buds into the dew-wet grass.Roses were everywhere. Roses rioted over the palings of the little inclosure until they seemed one solid hedge of leaves and flowers; roses trembled tenderly over the white tombstones in the little graveyard, roses bordered the path that led from the gateway to the door; roses climbed the stately elms that towered up above the building like silent sentinels, and roses dropped their scented petals upon the grass until it was starred everywhere with flecks of white and crimson that curled up like fairy cups to catch the silver dew."Sweet, you shall have a bridal bouquet of these," cried Mr. Spread, as he broke off great bunches of blossoms, and, stripping them of their thorns, massed them together and thrust them into her trembling hand."Many a fashionable bride has borne a costlier but less lovely bouquet than this, but never one more suitable. White roses are the symbol of innocence, Gypsy, and they suit you to perfection.""And red roses are the symbol of passionate pain, and, look, you have massed one of those in the very

heart of the bouquet!" she said plaintively, as she held it out to him, and then, with nervous haste, plucked out the offending flower, and, shuddering, cast it away. "Oh, Hamilton, is it an omen, I wonder—that one red spot of pain that you thoughtlessly set in the very heart of all the rest? Oh, love! oh, love! must it be?" She caught him tremblingly by the sleeve, as he thrust open the little gate, and looked up at him with terrified eyes. "It is not too late! Absolve me from my promise and let me go my way alone; for something warns me that no good will come of this rash step, and that some day I shall have bitter cause to repent it.""It shall not be through me, then," he answered ardently, as he wound one arm about her waist and led her reluctantly into the wilderness of roses. "See, the gate has closed behind us like the shadows of your old, sad life, my darling, and there is nothing about us now but flowers. That is what the new life will be, Gypsy."And, lo! as he spoke, as if to refute that assertion, a little blot of golden light fell suddenly across the pathway, and, widening slowly, took the shape of a cross. The moon, which for some time past had been. lost behind a cloud, had suddenly broken into view again, and its light striking down upon the gilded cross above the doorway of the church had flashed its reflection down through the darkness until it fell between the double wall of roses and shone at Gypsy's feet."Look, look, it is a warning!" she cried out, in terror, as she clung to him and shrank back from that ominous reflection. "Hamilton, it is a warning from Heaven, and I am afraid, afraid!""And to your fears this is Heaven's answer, my sweet," he said, as the moon, breaking into full view, poured down a sheet of dazzling, steely splendor that drenched the dark pathway and blotted the faint re-

flection out. "My poor, fanciful darling, why not take this for a pledge of the future? See! the whole world is bright, and there is nothing about us but  moonlight and roses. Come, Gypsy, come. I cannot and will not give you up, my sweet. I hold you to your promise, and I will hold you to it evermore.''She made him no reply, for his ardent impetuosity, coupled with the love she bore him, swept all her strength before it, and, like a leaf on the bosom of a flowing river, she drifted helplessly, borne onward by a power greater than her own.He stooped, and, taking her face between his palms, lifted, and kissed it. Then, drawing her hand through his arm, he led her slowly up the pathway and thrust open the door of the church.As in a dream, Gypsy saw that there were three persons. there awaiting them—the clergyman, his wife, and his son. In a sort of stupor, she saw them rise and come forward as she entered on her lover's arm, heard them say some gentle, pleasant words of greeting to her and to her bridegroom, and then became dimly conscious that she was moving up the aisle, and that the clergyman, book in hand, was leading the way to the altar.In another moment he had stepped behind it, she and her lover were standing before him, with the two witnesses upon either side. The hush of a great stillness filled the gloomy, half-lighted building, and then, with a suddenness that made her start and tremble, there came a little, preparatory cough, and the ceremony began.But not, as they had hoped, unseen by any prying eye, for, lo! as it progressed, a white, vindictive face appeared for one instant above the clustering foliage of one rose-wreathed window, and a pair of keen, malignant, blue eyes peered in and spied upon them.For one second only it shone there in the dim, uncertain light; then, like a flash, it vanished, and a mo-

ment later—pale, breathless, full of a furious hate—Miss Detheredge went scurrying down the rose-bordered path, out through the little wicket gate, and up the dark, tree-shaded road that led out of the little hollow."Married! Married, in spite of her father's words to-night, and married to the man he has sworn to kill!" she panted, as she ran on. "I see it all now. They are going to run away; they are going to give Geoffrey Meredith the slip, and seek security from him at the other end of the world. But they shan't do it—they shan't—they shan't! I'll balk their scheme; I'll spoil their little game, and they shall know what it costs to make a foe of me! I'll betray them to my uncle; I'll put him on their track before they can leave this place; I'll have every avenue closed against them, and you shall exchange the altar for the tomb, Mr. Hamilton Spread—the altar for the tomb. Drink deep of your short-lived joy, you fool! for to-night you will clink glasses with Death, and the woman you have scorned will be there to see—"But what she would "be there to see," Miss Detheredge never revealed, for even as she spoke—and, speaking, turned out from the road that led back to the coast—she collided suddenly with some one who was coming in the opposite direction.
"What the devil—" began some one, in an angry, masculine voice; then he stopped suddenly, and as Miss Detheredge gave a little, frightened shriek and sprang back from him, he spluttered out a savage oath and pounced upon her like a tiger."You devil! you fury!" he snarled out through his thick, black mustache, as he caught her by the throat and shook her as a terrier shakes a rat. "So we meet again, do we, and, after all, my visit to America is not to turn out a complete failure! If I have lost all trace of the man I came to seek, I have found you, my false wife, my treacherous betrayer, found you, as

I swore I would when your treachery sent me to the galleys at Toulon.""You, Matthew Sleaford! Is it really you?" gulped Miss Detheredge, looking up with glazed eyes into his handsome, evil face."Yes, it is really I," he answered through his shut teeth. "It is really that Matthew Sleaford who posed as an English nobleman that summer in France, five years ago—it is really that Matthew Sleaford whom you duped into marrying you, under the belief that you were a rich American heiress, only to find, within the space of twenty-four hours afterward, that you were an impostor like himself; and who, when you discovered that he had no means of support, save that which came from a low gambling house he owned, betrayed him to the police and had him taken red-handed in his secret lair—taken, and doomed to ten years in the galleys, where you doubtless believed he still remained."But he did not remain there, as you see. He escaped within two years' time—escaped, vowing vengeance upon the head o the woman who had betrayed him—escaped, swearing that if he ever met her he would have her paltry life, and that oath he is going to keep!""Mercy!" she panted feebly, as he loosed one hand from her throat and thrust it into an inner pocket; "Matthew, don't kill me! Matthew, have mercy!""Such mercy as I promised, I will give!" he answered, his handsome, evil face contorting with passion; then his hand flew suddenly upward, there was a flash of steel in the moonlight, followed by a sort of thud and a cry whose fierce anguish his gripped hand throttled; then another flash and another thud, and when he loosened his grip upon her throat, Ada Detheredge fell, a limp, inert, bloodstained heap at his feet, with the haft of a knife protruding from her bosom.For one moment Matthew Sleaford stood and looked down upon her—his hands dripping, his handsome raiment splashed and stained with her blood—stood and looked, as if waiting to see if there was any sign of life remaining; then, finding that there was none, he stooped, and, plucking out the knife, hurled it far away; then, with coldblooded calmness, he stooped again and wiped his hands upon the clothing of the woman he had slain."So we are quits at last, you lovely, treacherous snake, and if I can only find him and duplicate this night's work I shall have nothing in the world left to desire!"Then, with one last glance at the body of his victim, he buttoned his coat over his bloodstained clothing and strode hastily away.CHAPTER VII.
THWARTED AND DUPED.A long time that figure lay unseen there in the lonely road, after Matthew Sleaford had stalked away and left it, and nothing disturbed or broke in any way the silence which had followed the deed.Slowly, as if it somehow shrank from looking down upon that ghastly picture, the moon lifted its white face above the clustering treetops and threw one long, arrowy bar of light into the darkness of the road. Slowly that bar crept along the white dust and neared the silent figure.It touched the hem of her skirt and quivered there, for a moment as though shrinking from its ghastly duty; then it crept on again to her knees, to her waist, to her breast, to her face, and then, as if taking heart at what was now revealed, widened suddenly and bathed her in silvery light.For her eyes were wide open—not with the fixed and glassy stare of death, but with a look of hunted terror in their depths which told that the woman was not only still living, but was conscious—conscious of her awful suffering, conscious of her terrible position, and conscious of the necessity for making not the slightest movement until the retreating footsteps of her murderous assailant had died entirely away and there was no longer any fear of his coming back to finish the work he had begun.For fully ten minutes after he had left her, she lay there gripping hard at the terrible wounds to check their bleeding, and straining her ears in a wild endeavor to catch even the slightest sound of Sleaford's retreating steps. Then, taking heart, when nothing more terrifying than a tree toad's note rewarded her eager listening, she slowly crawled out of the moon
,s. /11—111rm,

light into the shadow, and, with an effort, dragged herself to her feet.Binding up her wounds as best she could, she summoned all her strength to her aid, and, keeping in the shadow of the trees, tottered on in the direction of home.To reach the Detheredge villa and to betray Gypsy and her lover before they could get beyond the reach of Geoffrey Meredith's revengeful hand, was her one aim and end at present, and she struggled to accomplish it with a courage and persistence that were worthy of a better cause.But even the bitterest malice and the strongest will are not proof against the laws of nature, and before she had covered one-fifth of the distance, Miss Detheredge found her strength giving out, and that horrible weakness which comes from loss of blood preying upon every nerve and fiber of her body.In vain she fought against it, and in vain she cried out that she would not faint, even when her strengthless limbs were bending beneath her and the whirl of vanishing consciousness was sweeping through her brain. Struggle as she might, she could not bend nature to her will, and so, after dragging herself onward for a few yards farther, she suddenly collapsed and dropped, a senseless and motionless heap, in the white dust of the road.For upward of an hour after consciousness had again returned to her she lay there, too weak to rise or move, and only able to bleat forth feeble cries for help—cries that could not be heard twenty yards distant. Fate finally sent assistance to her in the shape of a young farmer who was driving homeward after a visit to his sweetheart in the adjoining county.Attracted by her outcries, this stolid, good-hearted, but not overbrilliant young man drove to where she lay, and accepting without inquiry her statement that she had been thrown from her horse, lifted her into

his vehicle, and, obeying the instructions she gave him, drove her at all speed to the Detheredge villa.Here a state of the wildest excitement prevailed.Servants with lighted lanterns were rushing about the grounds and peering into the shadow of every shrub and tree; on the lawn, Mrs. Detheredge was standing and wringing her hands in impotent despair; on the beach still more servants with lanterns were running about in a state of panic, and near the little summerhouse, where he had had that memorable interview with his daughter more than two hours ago, Geoffrey Meredith, like a man distraught, was flying about and howling orders and offering rewards in a voice that was hoarse with anguish and excitement.For Gypsy's disappearance had been discovered, and he was mad with terror over the mystery of it.As the farmer's lumbering, old-fashioned carryall dashed through the crowd and went speeding up the drive to the door of the villa, Mrs. Detheredge gave a cry of infinite relief. Geoffrey Meredith caught sight of it, and, thinking that there was news at last of the missing girl, turned and ran after it.At the steps of the villa he came up with it, in time to hear Mrs. Detheredge explaining to Ada that Gypsy had mysteriously disappeared, and then to catch the horrified shriek that rang forth from her lips as she beheld the bloodstains upon her daughter's clothing and hands."Ada!" she shrieked in horror. "You are ill—injured. What has happened that you come back to me like this?""Help me down; help me into the house, and you shall know all, all!" breathed Miss Detheredge faintly, and, in answer to that appeal, Geoffrey Meredith himself sprang forward, and, lifting her in his strong arms, bore her into the house."My Heaven! What new horror is this?" cried Mrs. Detheredge, rushing to her daughter's side as he

deposited her upon a couch.. "Quick! a doctor! a doctor! Look, look, she is hurt, perhaps dying!""I have been assailed," panted Ada, rising to a sitting position; "murderously, barbarously assailed, and if I should die, my blood will be upon their guilty, heads—Gypsy Meredith and her husband!""Gypsy Meredith!" cried out her uncle, in a voice of excitement and indignation; "Gypsy Meredith and her husband, do you say? It is a lie! My child has no husband or she would have told me of it. Gypsy! Where is Gypsy? Speak! Do you hear? Where is my child? Where, where?""Where you will never find her if you do not act quickly," responded Miss Detheredge vindictively. "She was married to-night at the little church in the hollow. I tracked her there, and she and her husband set upon me and tried to murder me to prevent my betraying their secret union. They are married, I tell you—married, and have flown together, she and her husband, the Englishman, Mr. Hamilton Spread, who—""Hamilton Spread!" struck in Geoffrey Meredith, with an awful cry. "Do you mean to tell me that you know that man, and that she, my daughter, has married him?""Yes, yes; I know him—everybody hereabouts knows him. Ask my mother; she will tell you. He is an Englishman; his father was a wealthy artist, and Gypsy has married him, I tell you—married him and flown with him, and for some strange reason, which I cannot fathom, they do not want you to know of it, and tried to murder me that I might not betray, it to you. Gypsy, your child, has married Hamilton Spread, I tell you—Hamilton Spread, who was once my lover—and they have flown—none knows where!"With such a cry as might be expected to come only from the lips of a madman, Geoffrey Meredith sprang, toward the door."But I will share that knowledge with him!" he roared out furiously. "I'll follow them, I'll track them, I'll find them.""Geoffrey! brother!" gasped. Mrs. Detheredge, terrified by the awful expression of his face. "My Heaven, what would you do?""Kill that man!" he answered through his teeth. "Kill that man, and perhaps do worse to the wretch he has married, for such treachery as hers merits more than death. She has sold me, betrayed me, robbed me of my lifelong hope, and she shall pay, pay,
pay!"Merciful Heaven! are you mad? Remember she is your own child!""She is no longer my child!" he responded furiously. "I disown her; I repudiate her; I am done with her forever. She has thrown me over to take sides with my enemies; she has betrayed her own father, and I tell you she shall pay the price of her infamy as surely as there is a Heaven above us. That man—that Hamilton Spread whom she has married—do you know who and what he is? Do you? He is the son of the man who wrecked my life—the son of the man with whom her guilty mother fled, and she knows it—knows it—for I told her with my own lips!""Geoffrey!""It is true, I tell you—true! I told her to-night—told her out there in the summerhouse—and, like a fool, I obeyed her wishes when she asked me to say nothing of this to you. Oh, idiot! idiot! to be duped like this! I know now why she wished me not to mention Hamilton Spread's accursed name in your presence. I know now why she acted so strangely and why her face wore that terrified look when I revealed the truth to her. She was planning even then to betray me; planning even then to shield her accursed lover and to throw me over for the son of my

foe! But she shan't succeed; she shan't, she shan't! I'll track them, I'll head them off, I'll kill her wretched husband before her eyes."He whirled open the door, dashed it to behind him, and, as Mrs. Detheredge turned to her daughter and found that she had fainted, she heard him go dashing down the hall and out of the house, shouting as he ran for some one to procure him a conveyance to carry him to the church in the hollow.Such a conveyance was soon found, but it was of no avail, for when he reached the little church it was only to discover that Gypsy and her husband had long since taken their departure, and gone, neither the clergyman nor the two witnesses could tell whither."They came here in a carriage, I think, for I certainly heard one drive up and stop just a few moments before they entered the church, where my wife and my son were awaiting them," explained the clergyman. "But what became of them after the ceremony I certainly do not know, sir. The gentleman paid me handsomely for my services, and pressed gifts of money upon my wife and son in reward for theirs; then he went out with his bride leaning upon his arm, and, by the time my wife and son and I had put out the lights and locked up the church, preparatory to returning home, they had quite disappeared; there wasn't a sign of anybody in the road when we came out. Dear me! they seemed such a handsome couple and so splendidly mated. I hadn't the slightest idea, sir, that it was as you tell me, a runaway match; for Mr. Spread told me when he came earlier in the evening to arrange for the ceremony, that the young lady was an orphan, and, in consequence, there would be no relative to give the bride away; so my son performed that office, and, as I now regret to state, everything was done that constitutes a legal and binding ceremony, and Miss Meredith is now Mr. Spread's true and lawful wife."Crushed to the earth by this announcement, for he

had hoped against hope that there might be some mistake in his niece's statement, Geoffrey Meredith climbed into the carriage and drove furiously away.His next step was to visit every railway station; within a radius of ten miles, and inquire if aught had been seen of the runaways there.This also was futile.At some of the stations, porters and ticket sellers were positive that no young woman answering to Gypsy's description had appeared there, either in company with a gentleman or without; at others he was told frankly that everybody had been too busy to notice who boarded any of the several trains that evening, and, in despair over this utter failure to discover anything that could possibly be twisted into the semblance of a clew, Mr. Meredith turned disgustedly away.But not to give up the hunt even yet. Ah, no! he was not a man to yield so easily as that! His next effort—founded upon the supposition of the old clergyman—was to discover if they had made their escape in a carriage, and to learn, if possible, in what direction that carriage had been driven.But here, as elsewhere, he was doomed to disappointment.All through the livelong night he drove about the country prosecuting his search, first in this direction and then in that, but eliciting not the faintest clew; for it was a sparsely settled section, given up principally to farms and farmers, and the inhabitants were of the "early to bed and early to rise" order, and had no news to tell him of the people he sought.Yes, lots of them had heard a vehicle drive by—several vehicles, in fact, at different periods of the night—but some of them had been in bed when they heard them, and couldn't tell whether one of the many was driven by a young man accompanied by a young lady, or not. Others had been sitting up; either work-

ing or reading, but, bless you, a passing vehicle wasn't such a novelty that they should get up and go to the door to see who drove it or in which direction it was going.So, in despair, Mr. Meredith was finally obliged to abandon even that course, and, as morning was breaking and his horse and driver quite worn out, to return to the villa as empty-handed as he had left it.But, after snatching a few hours' sleep, he was off again in the early afternoon, only to return at nightfall and report failure again.So for three weeks this state of affairs continued, and, in the end, it was as barren of result as in the beginning.Meantime Miss Detheredge's condition had progressed through the various stages which were to be expected from such injuries as hers.In the beginning her life had been despaired of, but, thanks to an excellent physician, she was drawn back from the borderland, and was now steadily improving day by day.She heard, with the deepest regret, of her uncle's failure to trace the runaways, but she never for a moment gave up the hope of being, at some time, avenged upon them and upon the man who had so nearly caused her death. As she slowly grew stronger she would lie there, with an ugly shadow brooding in her sapphire eyes, and plot and plan her own wicked schemes in silence and in secret, day in and day out.It was from her lips the suggestion eventually came that, as her uncle had failed to find the runaways in America, he had better seek them abroad, as Mr. Hamilton Spread was an Englishman, and what more natural than that he should seek shelter in his own land."She is right, Linda," said Geoffrey Meredith to Mrs. Detheredge, when he heard this. "There is every reason to suppose that, knowing I am in

America, Hamilton Spread and his wife have left it, so I will go back to the Old World and hunt for them there. But not alone this time. From what I now know of Gypsy I can readily believe that what you say of her being ungrateful to you in the past is quite true, and, having banished her from my heart, I am going to take you and your child into it, since Ada has promised to be a daughter to me and help me as I once hoped that Gypsy would help me, to hunt down that man and his son. So, when she is strong enough, we will sail for England, Linda; and I will begin my life work anew.""And I mine," muttered Miss Detheredge, under her breath, as she heard this. "We are not done yet, Mr. Hamilton Spread; we are not done yet, Gypsy Meredith, and, after I have wiped out my score against you two, let Matthew Sleaford tremble and escape my vengeance, if he can!"CHAPTER VIII.
AT THE FARMHOUSE."Jemima! Je-mi-ma! Je-mima Ann, I say! Great land o' Goshen! where be that lazy, hulking, good-for-nothing critter, I wonder? Lounging about somewhere and stuffing her head with them foolish novels our last set o' boarders left behind 'em, I'll bet a cookie; and here it be close on to teatime, and them new folks expected to arrive at any minute, and the table not set nor the lamps lighted, and that lazy, shiftless critter idling away her time and doin' the Lord knows what—just as she always is when a body wants her. Serves me right, too, for being such a chuckle-headed idjit as to take a gal out of a city poorhouse, when there was lots of deservin' poor folks in the country as I might hev got for a mere song. Drat them New York missions, says I. I'll never take another gal from one on 'em as long as I live!"Having exhausted herself by this tirade, Miss Jerusha Pattison pounced into the kitchen of the farm-house over which she presided in the interest of her only brother, and so stumbled over a small, pale, freckle-faced, red-headed girl in a dingy cotton frock, who was sitting on a low bench close to the window, and engaged in the double task of shelling peas and devouring the contents of a paper-covered novel which lay open upon a chair beside her."I knowed it!" snorted Miss Jerusha, swooping down upon the novel, and, with one fling, sending it hurtling through the open window and fluttering down among the currant bushes outside. "Of all the lazy, shiftless, God-forsaken, useless gals that ever was set upon this mortal sphere, you're the laziest and the most

shiftlessest and the God-forsakenest, I vow and declare. Do you reckon I feed and keep you for' nothin' else but to read words from mornin' to night, do you?""If you please, Miss Jerusha, I was shellin' the peas as well, and I wasn't shirking my work," responded the girl, with a dismal look at the window through which the novel had been hurled. "I was doin' my best, I was, and, oh! the book was so interestin' that—""Bother your interestin' books! They're sinful, the hull batch on 'em!" snapped Miss Jerusha tartly. "If you want to read anything read your Testament, and not that trash of the Old Nick's that's fillin' your head with nonsense and your internal anatomy with sin! Now, then, shin off and light the lamps as quick as them lazy feet o' yourn can fly; for it's blind man's holiday, and there's new boarders expected on the very next train. I dunno who they be nor where they come from, nor how many there is on 'em—a heap, I reckon, for they want all the rooms we have—and nothin' 'cep' that their name's Smith and they seed our advertisement in the Christian Pledge, and telegraphed from Providence that they'd be here to-night on the six-o'clock train—and, good land o' hope! it's almost that now.""New bo'rders, and you don't know nothin' more about 'em than just that?" said Jemima Ann, her eyes sparkling with hope. "Mebbe there's a mystery about 'em, Miss Jerushy, and, oh! I would so like to meet folks what is mysterious. Next to actresses and dooks and countesses as travels in disguise, folks what has a secret is the nicest folks in any story, and I would so like to meet some. But," she added gloomily, as she took down the hall lamp, trimmed, and lighted it, "I never read about no folks named Smith havin' a mystery about them, no, I never did.""Mysteries be jiggered!" sniffed Miss Pattison scornfully; "I won't listen to no sech profane tom-

foolery. Be off, now, and attend to them lamps and set the table and ready up the bedrooms and dust the ornaments upon the parlor mantel, and, mind, you're not more than ten minutes about it, or back you go to the mission next Monday morning. I'm about sick and tired of your shiftless goings on, I am, and if you don't mend your ways blessed quick, back you go, bag and baggage, the very day your two months' trial is up."Jemima Ann made no reply.As long as she could remember she had been used to just such treatment as this. Nobody owned her, nobody wanted her. Even the "mission people," who had taken her from the foundling asylum as soon as she was able to read and write, had been anxious enough to get rid of her at the first opportunity. Nobody seemed to care for her, or to have any sympathy with that deep, inborn spirit of romance and that yearning love of the beautiful which had been nature's birthday gift to her when first she opened her eyes, nobody knew where or how, sixteen years ago.All her lonely life long she had been surrounded by religious texts and fed upon religious books and been told that she was a miserable sinner, who had been put upon this earth to suffer and fight sin and stifle all the thoughts that arose within her in order that she might one day be worthy to lay down her life, which had never had any brightness for her, and enter into some splendid celestial abode, where only the godly were fit to stand, and which her teachers had only succeeded in making her shrink from when they told her that they expected to win the right to dwell there in company with the long-faced, dismal-eyed men and women who, once a week, used to lecture her and her fellow foundlings upon the sinfulness of pleasure and the horror of seeing anything beautiful in this lower world.She had been told that all books save one were

ungodly, that all pleasure save the pleasure of ceaseless prayer and ceaseless striving for redemption were sinful and grievous, and she used to wonder often and often how these bigots who were trying to make life a burden expected to please God by belitting His work and finding only sin in the beautiful things He had created.All her life she had been shut in from the things she loved; all her life her love of romance and beauty had been stifled and crushed till the thought of being sent back to the mission filled her with absolute horror, and made her work fast over the lamps and the teatable and the bedrooms in the hope of making Miss Jerusha retract that dreadful threat.Not that she loved the home to which she had been sent and where she was made to drudge like a slave from morning till night, but that here she could see the fresh fields and blooming flowers; here she could hear the birds sing and breathe the pure air of heaven; here she had found books which had been forbidden her, and in which she learned of men and women who were good and true, and who were rewarded for it without having to die.No, no! she would never go back to the mission; she would kill herself sooner than that; and so, in hope of appeasing Miss Jerusha, she worked fast and prayed hard, in her own fashion, to the tender, merciful God she had found in her novels—the God who rewarded her favorite heroes and heroines and made virtue triumph and vice fall—prayed to Him to stand by her, all unaware that the thing she had so long worshiped was already approaching her, and that this very night there would come to her the first gleam of romance which had ever relieved the dull drab of her dismal life, and that in coming it would change that life forever.In the midst of her work there came a telltale sound from the drive which led up to the door of the farm-

house—the sound of a vehicle arriving—then an opening and shutting of doors, as Miss Jerusha flounced out of her bedroom with her best gold breastpin and earrings on, and flew to welcome the newcomers. Then the sound of a man's voice—such a round, rich, cultured voice, and yet with such an air of jollity about it—saying something to the driver of the conveyance which had brought him from the station, and, after that, Miss Jerusha's shrill nasal tones raised high in effusive welcome.The new boarders were here.Jemima Ann, unable to restrain her eagerness longer, flew to the hall, leaned over the banisters, looked down, and in that one look life and the world were changed to her, for her "hero" and "heroine" had come.By the light of the lamp in the lower hall she saw a tall, handsome, fair-haired man—the very handsomest man that ever lived, she verily believed—and, beside him, dressed in deepest black and heavily veiled, a small, girlish figure that clung to him with the air of a frightened child."Dear me! and be there only you two in the family?" Miss Jerusha was explaining. "I opined as there'd be a hull raft of you, from your tellygraffin' as you'd take all the rooms. But only you two, and"—looking around—"no baggage but just that big valise and Mis' Smith's own little 'rittycule.' Ain't there more a-comin'—more folks, I mean, and, in course, more baggage, too?""No; there are only my wife and I, Miss Pattison," was the response. "Mrs. Smith is not very well, and as she requires rest and quiet, I engaged all the rooms so that she need not be disturbed by the presence of any other boarders. As we have brought very little luggage, we shall only remain here for ten days. I will pay you for two weeks' board and lodging in

advance, Miss Pattison, and that, I trust, will be quite satisfactory. And now, as we have been traveling almost incessantly for the past forty-eight hours, and Mrs. Smith is very tired, will you kindly show her to the best bedroom in the house, and have supper served as speedily as possible? You would like to remove your outer garments and lie down for a while, would you not, my darling?""Yes," was the faint response, and then the veil was lifted and thrown back, exposing to the eager eyes of Jemima Ann a beautiful face, whose loveliness fairly made her gasp. Whether she lost her wits, or that beautiful, sorrowful countenance had bewitched her—no matter—before she knew what she was about to do, she had dropped her duster, scuttled down the stairs, and was standing before that radiant vision, crying out in a strange, eager voice:"Oh, let me help you off with your things; let me show you to your room, Mrs. Smith. Oh, please do, for I'd like to ever and ever so much.""Well, I never! What next, I wonder!" gasped Miss Pattison, as soon as her amazement would permit her to say anything. "The idea of you a-interferin' and wantin' to do the duty of the lady of the house—a poorhouse critter like you! The cheek o' you mission gals beats the Dutch, I do declare; and, after this piece of impertinence, back you go to-morrow mornin', as sure as eggs is eggs.""Oh, Miss Jerusha! don't say it; please don't!" burst forth Jemima Ann, in despair. "I didn't mean to do nothin' wrong, and I didn't mean to be impertinent—indeed I didn't. I only wanted to do something for Mrs. Smith, because—because—she's so pretty that I just couldn't help it; I really couldn't.""Well, I never. Talk about cheek—a-criticizin' people's looks afore their very faces. Don't you mind her, Mis' Smith. I'll see that she's just where she

never gits the chance to take liberties with bo'rders o' mine ag'in, the forward baggage.""Oh, please don't be harsh with her," was the response. "I don't mind it at all; indeed I don't, and she seems such a poor, forlorn little thing, and she has such a good face.""Hev she indeed? Well, then, it's the only 'good' thing as I ever hearn tell of anybody discoverin' about her yet! She's a mission gal—a foundlin' asylum orphan, as was sent down here by the 'society' in New York, and—""An orphan?" interposed the new boarder, with ready sympathy. "I, too, am an orphan now, Miss Pattison—I, too, am an orphan now!""Be you? Well, that's sad, ain't it? But you ain't no sech kind of orphan as Jemima Ann, that's one comfort. I'm done with her, I am, and back she goes to that mission in the mornin', as sure as I am a Christian woman!""Oh, don't let her send me back there; please, please don't let her send me back, Mrs. Smith!" pleaded the child, falling on her knees before the new boarder. "You're good, and you're kind. I can see it in your eyes—see it in your beautiful face, and if you'll only save me from the mission I'll be your slave forever and ever. Maybe you need a servant; maybe you'll take me? Oh, will you; will you? I'd love to work for you; you're so good and pretty, and you say you're an orphan, like me. Mrs. Smith, please do. I'll be a good servant, I promise you I will, if you'll only do it. I'll slave for you and ask God to bless you all your whole life long."For a moment Mrs. Smith looked deeply and earnestly into the beseeching face upraised to hers, then she turned to her husband, and then:"May I?" she said wistfully. "I should like to very much. She is an orphan, and—and my heart some-

how goes out to her. Oh, may I, Hamilton? It would please her very, very much.""You are to suit yourself in all things, Gypsy, my darling," he answered tenderly. "You will need a maid, for you are not strong, and if you wish it say yes to the child and be sure that in pleasing yourself you will please me."CHAPTER IX.
THE SMILE OF FORTUNE."Then 'yes,' you poor, forlorn little outcast," said Gypsy, as she bent and laid a tender hand upon Jemima Ann's head. "I don't know why I have taken this fancy to you. Perhaps it is because I, too, know what it means to be fatherless and motherless and to feel how good it is to have one I loved at first sight stoop and take me out of the stony ways; so, if Miss Pattison will consent, I will take you, Jemima Ann, and you shall work for me in future.""Great land o' Goshen! I'm agreeable, never fear," responded Miss Pattison. "She's a lazy, shiftless, good-for-nothing critter, that's what she is, ma'am; so don't say as I didn't give you fair warning. Take her if you want her, for, Lord knows, I'm glad enough to get her off my hands; you can bet a cookie on that.""Oh, bless you for that, Miss Jerushy; bless you for that!" cried out Jemima Ann, so delighted that she was almost hysterical. "Oh, Mrs. Smith, I love you, I love you, and I'll never forget this as long as I live. I'll work for you, I'll slave for you, I'll die for you if ever you want me to, and if God's listening I hope He hears me say it and will punish me if I break my word."So the matter was settled, and so the lives of these two girls were linked together, never again to be divided until death should make them twain.Following Jemima Ann's lead Gypsy made her way upstairs to the "best bedroom," and aided by the hands of her new servant, was soon rendered comfortable; for she was very tired, poor child, having only rested for a few brief hours at Providence—where she and her husband had made needed purchases of clothing,

et cetera—since her flight from Newport, two nights ago.So she lay and rested, with Jemima Ann "squatted" upon the floor beside her, watching her with adoring eyes, until supper was served and her husband, coming up from below, tiptoed his way into the room to learn if she would go down or would prefer to have the meal served in her room."I will go down," she said. "If I act as though I am afraid of meeting people, it will excite suspicion, and, who knows, even though we are now in Massachusetts, and miles and miles away from Newport, same clew to this mysterious 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' may reach my father's ears, and put him upon the track before we have succeeded in escaping from the country."Oh, Hamilton!" stealing softly into his arms and looking up at him with adoring eyes; "you are all I have in the world now, dear, and if I were to lose you I should pray Heaven to let me die!""You will not lose me, my darling; be assured of that," he smilingly responded, as he stooped and kissed her; "so don't wear that sorrowful face, little woman, for I have won you by a struggle, and I mean to stick to you like wax! There; that's a fine simile, is it not? But you see I can't stick to you like a brother, for I am something nearer and dearer than that!""Yes, you are dearer than all earth and heaven," she answered, "and I hope that God will never make either of us regret the hour when our lives were joined together.""He never will, sweet, never," responded Mr. Spread, with conviction, and then pressing another kiss upon her upturned face, he wound his arm about her and led her down to supper.By the time they had finished their meal, darkness had shut in in real earnest, and the moon was beginning to rise over the distant hills. More because they

wished to talk without fear of listeners than for any other reason—for Gypsy was still very tired—they went for a stroll down a quiet, shaded lane which Jemima Ann pointed out to them, and which led, as she told them, to a lake where there were water lilies and lovely, romantic spots that were "just heavenly when the moon was up, and nothing but the smell of the flowers and the chirping of little things in the woods to tell a body that it wasn't all a dream."So to this lake they went, and in solitude talked over their plans."We shall have to remain here until I have made all arrangements for our departure for England, my darling," Mr. Spread explained; "and that will take ten good days at least. "At Providence I telegraphed on to the steamship company at New York to book two first-class passages on the steamer Atlantic, for Mr. and Mrs. George Smith, and stated that I would send the money for them from this place to-night, but now, since you have taken such a fancy to this queer little elf of a Jemima Ann, I shall have to engage passage for her as well."The Atlantic, however, does not sail for twelve days yet, but as you seem to dread so much that we may run into a trap if we venture forth from our place of concealment now, I thought it better to remain hidden in this out-of-the-way place rather than go on to New York while the search for you is still hot. I must send the money to the steamship company to-night, that is certain, and so as soon as you are rested we will go back to the farmhouse and I will write my letter in time to catch the night post.""I am rested now," said Gypsy. "Let us go back at once, Hamilton, that you may write your letter without delay."So they journeyed home again, and Gypsy, being now quite worn out, only too willingly accepted her, husband's suggestion that she should undress and go

to bed instead of sitting up to keep him company while he wrote to the steamship office. Waiting only to see him established in the parlor with the writing materials which Miss Jerusha procured for him, she kissed him good night and went upstairs to bed."Good night, and sweet dreams, my darling," he said. "Don't lie awake and wait for me, for I am a slow writer, and it's quite possible that I may walk over to the post office with my letter when I have finished it, for I am very anxious that it should catch the night mail."But, in spite of his anxiety, it was not to the steamship company he gave his first attention. As soon as he was alone, he dipped his pen into the ink and began as follows:"IN THE WILDS OF MASSACHUSETTS, July 15."MY DEAR COUSIN:Don't start! Yes, it is really from me, and I am really here in America, and have been for months past. But I am coming home, old chap, and bringing the best little woman in the world with me. What do you think? I am married, Mat, actually married—I, your good-for-nothing cousin, who used to vow that he would never surrender his independence to a woman, but would live and die in glorious bachelorhood and leave you his heir! I am actually a benedict, and have been for the past forty-eight hours."How shall I begin to tell you all about it? You know what a harum-scarum, rattle-pated, restless chap I am, and how I like to rush off without a moment's notice anywhere that happens to crop up in my mind? Well, while you were down in Devonshire with Asquith the runaway notion took hold of me again, and this time it prompted me to visit America. I suppose when you returned you wondered where the dickens I had gone, although my lawyer might have told you, for I let him into the secret, of course."Well, I had the Englishman's erroneous idea of this country as a place where men of distinction are pestered to death by reporters, and where the possessor of a title is absolutely haunted by the interviewer—I find him much less in evidence than he is in England, by the way—and long before the vessel reached port I resolved upon adopting an alias. I didn't want the ordinary Smith, Brown, or Robinson; I wanted something that would sound as though it were a bona-fide name and not an assumed one; so in my desperation I turned to the very things I was trying to escape—the newspapers—and I found what I wanted there."In the columns of 'Deaths,' in the New York Herald, I found announced the demise of a man who bore the name of Hamilton Spread. 'There,' said I, 'is the very thing—Hamilton Spread.' No man in his senses would ever accuse a fellow of sailing under false colors who bore a beast of a name like that, and, as the original owner of it is dead, I shan't be robbing anybody; so I adopted it on the spot, and 'Hamilton Spread' I have been ever since the day of my arrival here."And the fun of it all is that the dear little woman I have married doesn't know me by any other, and I'm keeping the truth from her as a grand surprise, to be revealed only when we arrive at the castle. Of course she is legally my wife, for in this country the law recognizes the fact of the ceremony, not the name under which it is performed; so my little Gypsy—her name is Gypsy, and it suits her to perfection—is as legally the wife of Lord Philip Desmond as she is the wife of Mr. Hamilton Spread. But if she or anybody else has any doubts upon that score, I shall marry her again, and under my real name and title this time, as soon as we arrive in England."I have already booked our passage home, but for reasons which I can't explain to you under the name of 'Mr. and Mrs. George Smith' this time, and we are

to set sail for England upon the steamer Atlantic, which leaves New York upon Saturday, July twenty-seven, and you may reasonably expect us at the castle in a week from that date. Now, old chap, do me the favor of having the rooms which she will occupy decorated and fitted up in the most sumptuous manner possible. She is a brunette, so that will guide you in the choice of colors! Spare no expense, and have invitations issued at once for a grand ball, to be given in her honor one week from the date of our arrival."While I write this, my darling sleeps, unconscious that she is a marchioness or that she has married any but a poor man who paints for a living and only 'feasts' when the luck is in and his pictures sell. May God bless her for the best and sweetest of women and hasten the day when not she alone, but all the world, may know that she is the idolized wife of your affectionate cousin, DESMOND."Passing the blotter over his still wet signature, my lord, the Right Honorable Philip Eustace Armbruster, Marquis of Desmond and Baron Camperdown, folded the written sheet, slipped it into an envelope, and, taking up his pen again, addressed it to : "Matthew Sleaford, Esq., Thetford Castle, Duphaven Royals, Kent, England."CHAPTER X.
BEFORE THE TRAGEDY.Miss Jerusha Pattison was a Christian. That is to say, she attended the village church regularly twice every Sunday, rain or shine; she unfailingly gave ten cents weekly toward defraying the minister's salary, and twenty-five cents quarterly to the Foreign Mission Societies; she knew every hymn between the two covers of her "Songs of Praise"; she knew her Bible, her creed, her "Revelations of Faith" backward and forward; she subscribed regularly to the Christian Herald and the Salvation Banner, and read every one of them; therefore, in the eyes of her less favored and more busily employed sisters, she passed muster for a Christian, and, being a Christian, of course had scruples.They may not have been of the true Christianity kind, but they troubled her a great deal after she had gone to bed that night, and on the morrow she exploited them.To be brief, she had suddenly come to the conclusion that, to quote her own words, "It wasn't doin' her duty to the New York Mission to let Jemima Ann take a new place without first applyin' to the secretary of the mission fur lief to do so, and lettin' him take the responsibility of seein' as she was goin' where she'd be brung up under Christian inflooence, and in proper fear of the Lord."Now, for several reasons this program did not suit "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" at all. To begin with, they did not wish to have any investigations made relative to who they were and what was their moral and social standing in the world; then, too, as their vessel was to sail in ten days, they could not possibly wait until Miss Jerusha was willing to give up the child, so, strongly suspecting that the spinster's scruple, if not,

indeed, her Christianity, was of the mercenary kind, and had more than a flavor of "what the world would say" about it, Lord Desmond—let us call him by his right name at last—allowed Miss Jerusha to stew in the juice of her own pious (?) opinions for several days, and then cautiously assailed her in her weak spot, aided and abetted, be it understood, by Jemima Ann herself, who, during the course of those few days, managed to break more dishes, drop more jars of preserves, and spill more pots of tea and coffee than had ever before been broken, dropped, or spilled in the Pattison establishment since the day its foundation was laid."Drat that creature! She'll be the ruin of me!" exclaimed Miss Jerusha, clasping her hands and springing a good half foot into the air as an awful crash from the kitchen—whither Jemima Ann had repaired with a great tray full of breakfast dishes—rang through the stillness like the exploding of a gun. "Land o' Goshen! I do believe she's dropped the whole batch o' them breakfast things and smashed them into smithereens."Investigation proved the truth of this.Jemima Ann had dropped the whole "batch," and they were smashed to "smithereens," for fragments of them were lying all over the kitchen, and tea and toast and butter and fried eggs galore were smeared all over the floor, and indeed all over Jemima Ann herself, who stood in the midst of the wreck like a monument erected to the memory of the ruin she had wrought."My great-grandfather's teapot!" shrieked Miss Jerusha, stooping and plucking a blue china spout from the midst of the wreck and frantically rushing back with it to the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Smith."Oh! look at it: look at it! It's broke all to smash, and it's been in the Pattison family for more'n a hundred year. My great-grandfather owned it—my

great-grandfather as fit in the Revolution along with General George Washington, and there ain't nothin' left of it but' just the spout and the knob in the chiny lid. Oh, I can't stand it! I won't stand it! An angel out o' heaven wouldn't board and lodge that critter to the end o' the month arter a dreadful thing like this, and what an angel wouldn't do, I vow I won't do, neither; so back she goes to the mission this very day. Two dollars' worth o' dishes, to say nothin' o' my great-grandfather's chiny teapot, which was absolutely invulnerable"—Miss Jerusha probably meant "invaluable," but that is a detail—"two dollars' worth o' dishes all broke at one smack, and a rag carpet that I worked three whole year a-gittin' ready to be wove, all daubed with eggs and butter till it's a sight to make a stone image weep! No! I won't stand her—I won't stand her another hour! She'll have brother Hiram and me in the poorhouse if I do. So back she goes to the mission in charge o' the express messenger of the two-o'clock train, and Heaven have pity on the poor, misguided, sufferin', sinful woman that she gits sent to next!""Why send her back at all, then, Miss Pattison?'' suggested Lord Desmond, with a sly twinkle in his eye. "It seems to me hardly just to let somebody else be taken in by her as you have—somebody who is in no position to know her failings, I mean, and who may suffer by them, as you have done.""That's so," acquiesced Miss Jerusha; "it don't seem altogether Christianlike to shift our tribberlations onto the backs of other poor sinners just fur the sake o' gittin' rid on 'em ourselves, so I might ask the secretary to tell me where she goes next, so's I could write to her new mistress and warn her. It would be sort o' easin' my conscience and doin' a Christian duty at the same time.""But, my dear bliss Pattison, charity begins at home.""Mebbe it do, but it won't be my home; you can bet a cookie on that!" asseverated Miss Jerusha. "She's cost me more'n eight dollars in dishes and preserves and what-not durin' the past six days, to say nothin' of the wear and tear of my nerves and the teetotal annihilation of that sacred teapot, as I wouldn't 'a' tuck seven dollars and a quarter fur, cash down; and I won't stand her another hour at any price.""Then ease your conscience by turning her over to us, as you originally intended to do," craftily suggested Lord Desmond. "She won't have to handle dishes in the service of Mrs. Smith, and she never seems to break things when attending to her. Besides, you will be imposing upon no one a burden which you are tired of bearing yourself, for we know the girl's shortcomings, and a stranger wouldn't. Come, now, look at it in a sensible, in a Christian light. If you send the girl back to the mission and report to whoever wishes to engage her next what a trial she is, why, nobody will have her; she'll become an encumbrance to the society, and, finding that they can't do anything with her, the directors will give her up; she'll be thrown on the world, she'll drift into the streets—drift into evil, perhaps—her soul will be lost, and you'll have that on your conscience forever-more.""Thet's so," agreed Miss Jerusha. "But, then, somebody's got to suffer through her shiftlessness and uselessness, and why shouldn't it be her as well as me? She' the root of the evil, I ain't, and eight dollars' worth of dishes and a family heirloom has got to be avenged somehow. It's puttin' a premium on shiftlessness not to do it, to say nothin' o' bein' downright onjust to careful gals to overlook the doin's of good-for-nothin' critters like her. More'n fifteen dollars' worth o' household goods smashed and ruined in a week's time! Great Scott! it's enough to make a body's flesh creep, that it be.""But suppose I give you thirty dollars for it, and so save you from becoming a loser by the operation at all?" suggested Lord Desmond, coming to the point at last. "Suppose I give you double the amount of your loss, take the girl off your hands this minute, and save you the expense of her fare back to New York? The society needn't know; indeed, it will be a charity to the child to keep it from them; you will have imposed upon no one; you will have done your duty by a soul that might otherwise be lost, and you will be benefitting your fellow countrymen; for in four days' time I shall take the child out of the country, and the charitable institutions that are supported by American purses will be burdened by her no more.""Thet's so. I never looked at it in that light, and it do look like a rale act o' Christian charity, arter all, don't it, now?" said Miss Jerusha, feeling the milk of human kindness thaw out of its frozen state and flow again under the warming influence of those thirty dollars. "It don't seem right, though, to take more'n the things is worth, but you rich folks is bound to squander your money on one thing or another, so I reckon it might jest as well fall into righteous hands, where it's needed, as be chucked away in theaters and jools and dress and other sinful pleasures. That sort o' re-con-ciles me to it a leetle. Then, too, I kin give a dollar to the parson's wife to help buy her a new bonnet, poor thing, and I reckon that'll sort o' balance matters a bit, and be doin' something fur the Lord as well. So—well, I don't keer. Suit yourself, Mr. Smith, but if ever you live to regret your bargain, don't say as Jerusha Pattison didn't give you fair warnin', and try to do her duty by yer as a feller pilgrim in this sin-soaked world.""It is a bargain, then?""Yes, if you like. I won't say nothin' to the society, and you kin take Jemima Ann inter your exclusive service from this time on. I'll git one o' Huldy

Higginses' gals to help me so long as you stay here, and arter a piece I'll try one o' the Bosting mission, and. see if I can't do better there."So, to the great delight of Jemima Ann and to the intense satisfaction of Gypsy, who had grown to be very fond of the poor, forlorn little outcast, with her strange ideas and her inborn love of the romantic and mysterious, the matter was settled for good and all, and Jemima Ann's fate was decided."Oh, it is good of you, Hamilton; wonderfully good of you; for you know how fond I have grown of the child, and how happy it will make me always to have her with me," said Gypsy, after his lordship had "settled" with Miss Jerusha, and that vestal virgin had left the room. "But thirty dollars is a lot to spare, and you have been spending money much too freely of late for a man who has only his palette and brush between him and the world. Where did you get so much money, Hamilton? Did you sell a picture just before—before we were married? If so, you mustn't squander the money you got for it, for it will take a long time to paint another, and if our money should give out too soon we should be in desperate straits.""Never you fear about that, you precious little croaker," responded his lordship laughingly, as he bent. and kissed her; "I have plenty of pictures at home in England, and I could sell one of those for a splendid price at any time should the need to do so arise. But let's change the subject. Tell me, dear; are you happy living here with me apart from all the rest of the world, or do you think that you will soon grow tired of your bargain and sick of the attention of your artist husband?""Tired of you?" said Gypsy, looking up at him with adoring eyes; "oh, I shall never be that, never, for you are my world, Hamilton—my world, my king, my all!""And you are happy, dear?""Happy? Ah, yes! Happier than I ever hoped—happier than I deserve to be, after disregarding my father's wishes and deserting him as I have done! Sometimes when I think of that it makes me afraid, Hamilton!""Afraid, dear? Afraid of what?""Afraid lest I should be punished for every wrong act, you know, and—and—after all, he was my father, and I owed him a child's duty. But, oh, I couldn't see you slain, my darling, and so—""Slain?" he struck in sharply; "why should I be slain? What! had your father, then, something to do with that mysterious plot against my life of which you spoke when—""You promised not to ask me anything," interrupted Gypsy hastily, and with a great deal of excitement. "Let us change the subject, Hamilton; but, oh, if you love me, pray, dear—pray with me that Heaven will hasten the day of our departure, and that we shall soon be on the sea—you and I and dear little Jemima Ann—on the sea, and sailing away to that happiness and that peace which I know now I shall only find in a foreign land!"And that night, ere his head touched his pillow, my lord, remembering those words, did pray as she had asked him to do—prayed fervently and long, not knowing what bitter trials awaited the woman he loved in that land which she was so anxious to reach, or that the fiat of fate had already gone forth, and that peace for him and her would fade with the fading of America's shores, and be wholly wrecked on the deep sea.CHAPTER XI.
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.The day of their departure had dawned at last.Jemima Ann, wild with excitement, and arrayed in a neat traveling suit which Gypsy had purchased for her in a neighboring town, was up betimes, and, as Miss Jerusha phrased it, "flying about the house like a chicken with its head off," for they were to start early, and there was much to do—getting everything ready for her beloved mistress, and loading herself with all the bundles she could espy.For the child was anxious to make herself invaluable to her new employers, and would even have shouldered her master's suit case, with all the rest, but that he prevented her from doing so, and gave it to one of the farm hands to carry to the station instead."You run along with him, Jemima Ann," his lordship said. "As you are so eager to be of assistance, I'll put you in charge of all the luggage from this time forth; and, mind you, don't let it get separated from you, if you can help it, young lady.""You bet I won't," asserted Jemima Ann resolutely, and Gypsy, not knowing that in time to come she was to bless her for obeying that command to the letter, laughed as she saw the girl dart away and keep pace with the man who was bearing the brown suit case."I don't believe she would let it be separated from her after this, if her very life depended upon it, Hamilton," said Gypsy, who was soon to have actual proof of how true that statement was.With much relief, they bade adieu to Miss Jerusha, and started for the station, where Jemima Ann, standing guard over the luggage, already awaited them. Ten minutes later they were seated in the train and steaming away to New York.A heavy rainstorm ushered in the day of sailing, and diminished
considerably the crowd waiting upon the pier to see the Atlantic off. Gypsy, who was strangely fanciful, saw a grim foreboding in this gloomy morning, and that weeping, leaden sky.They took a cab from the hotel where they had spent the night, and drove straight to the steamer, going immediately to their stateroom and remaining hidden there until the vessel sailed, for Gypsy, poor child, could not quite rid herself of the fear that some one who knew her—some emissary of her father's, perhaps—might be lingering about the wharves, and, seeing her, would put Geoffrey Meredith upon the track.It was not until, the vessel had steamed out of port, and they were well on their way to the open sea, that she at length suffered her husband to persuade her to issue forth from her place of concealment and come on deck, where she could see the last of the land she was leaving.They did not stay long, however, for the vessel was already beginning to roll, and the rain was coming down in torrents."We're in for a rough passage, I'm afraid," she heard one of the stewardesses say to a companion, as she passed through a saloon. "I never knew the vessel to roll so much as this going out of the bay but what it was a sign of a long siege of rough weather, and you mark my words, Mrs. Briggs, we'll have a nasty passage, and probably not get to Liverpool as soon as we expect, by a day or two.""Get along with you! You're always croaking," responded the other, with a sniff of disdain. "I never saw such a woman in all my born days. You'd ought to been a raven, you'd ought.""Well, you mark my words, if it doesn't come true, now. We'll have a bad night of it, and boisterous weather all the way across."And before six hours had passed, everybody had

good reason to remember the stewardess' words, and to accord her a place among the prophets.Long before nightfall the vessel was out of sight of land, and pitching about in a stormy sea, and the rain was pouring down as though the very heavens were split and a second deluge about to begin.For three days the storm continued, but on the fourth it burst into such sudden and awful fury that all that had preceded it seemed by contrast to be but a mere squall; for they had only been hovering upon the verge of the storm belt heretofore, and now they had run suddenly into it.It was as though the vessel had gone upon a sunken reef. The suddenness with which the storm struck it lifted it bodily and hurled it back as though it were a mere cork. The mountainous waves rushed on and swept it from stem to stern, the timbers creaked and groaned like human things, the whole huge vessel shivered from end to end like an expiring animal; then came another violent lurch, another groan, followed by a heavy shock, and up from the engine room rolled a cry of despair—the shaft had broken!In an instant the news of the accident traveled like wildfire, and a sort of panic ensued.Passengers who had been lying ill in their berths rolled out and rushed into the saloon in a state of undress that would have been ludicrous under any other circumstances; hysterical women and weak-headed men rushed, shrieking, about the place, and made others who were inclined to be rational nervous by their prognostications of evil, and their certainty that the vessel was instantly going down. In the midst of this uproar, Jemima Ann made a dive into her mistress' stateroom and came rushing out again with her arms clasped tightly about Lord Desmond's big valise."Clear the track, there! Clear the track, there! If anything is going to be saved this is going to be

saved!" shouted she, as she made a rush through the saloon, where several officers and stewards. and stewardesses were vainly endeavoring to quell the disturbance and talk sense into the heads of people who were born without it. "Clear the track, I tell you! This here valise ain't a-going to be lost for anybody, and—come along, Mrs. Smith! I can swim, and I'll look after you!""Take that valise back at once!" exclaimed Lord Desmond, catching her suddenly by the arm; then, obeying an impulse, he sprang suddenly upon one of the tables and addressed the excited crowd."Men, women! Have some sense! This is not necessarily a fatal accident! Listen to what the officers tell you; listen, and have some sense, some reason. We are not going down! It is only the shaft that has been broken, and many a vessel has crossed the ocean with a broken shaft, before this. If you are cowards, shriek out and make others cowards; if you are men, stand by your wives and children; talk to them, calm them, reassure them; don't drive them mad with terror, and convert them into cattle. Do you think that your wives are dearer to you than my wife is to me? Look, here she is"—he leaped down, forcing Gypsy into a seat—"and here I'll sit beside her till there is need to rise and fight for the safety of her precious life!""Bravo, sir, bravo! You're a sensible man, and I wish there were more like you!" exclaimed one of the higher officers, patting his lordship on the back. "Listen to me, you mad fools! I tell you there is no danger as yet. The ship is a stout one, and there is every reason to hope that she'll weather this storm, as she's weathered hundreds of others in her time. When there is a real danger you shall know it, but, by the Lord Harry! the next man who does anything to create a panic shall be clapped into irons, and kept there, whether the ship goes down or not!"This threat had the effect of subduing the excitement considerably, although it did not quell it altogether, and, taking advantage of the calmer mood of the passengers, the officer rushed away to join his captain, and left Lord Desmond to fill his place in the effort to secure order.But, in spite of the rosy view of things which both his lordship and the officer had taken, the accident was far more serious than either knew; for the broken shaft had stove a hole in the ship's side, and the water was pouring into it in torrents.The ship's carpenters were speedily at work trying to repair the damage, but repairing it was by no means easy, for the Atlantic was not a new vessel, and possessed very few of the modern appliances.There was no iron shutter to lower and close the gap, only the old-fashioned clamped "barricade," with its bolts and bars and stout rivets, and before even this could be secured more than one brave fellow had been seriously, if not fatally, injured, and had to be drawn up, half drowned and cruelly battered by the heavy lurching of the vessel as it plunged from side to side.Men were put at the pumps to force the water out of the hold while the injury was being repaired, and when at length, after three solid hours of working, the barrier, which had been secured by so much labor, was suddenly torn away by a heavy sea that ripped and rent it as though it were so much cardboard, the captain realized that unless some superhuman effort were made the ship would certainly founder, for the storm seemed to grow wilder with every moment, and, as the engines had to be stopped to repair the damage, the disabled vessel was wholly in the grasp of the riotous sea.So an order was instantly issued for all the able-bodied men among the passengers to attend to the pumps, that every available man of the crew might be put to work on the task of erecting a second barrier,

and this order revealing, as it did, the serious nature of the accident, produced a second panic.Lord Desmond was among the first to respond, and, putting him in command of the pumping brigade, the captain went below with his men, for there was need of every hand now, since the water was flowing in faster than it could be pumped out, and the vessel was already beginning to list.But my lord worked on, cheering his fellow laborers with hopeful words and the example of a brave man, as his arms flew up and down, while his whole body ached under the violent exertion.But the cheer he longed to hear—the cheer that should tell of success—did not roll up from the hold, and the vessel steadily listed.Still he worked on, while the waves thundered down like liquid mountains upon the ship, the furious wind snapped the rigging and carried section after section of it careering off through the air like flying straws caught in a hurricane. Suddenly, in the midst of his exertions, there came a splintering sound from beneath the deck, and a moment later the captain and his crew came scrambling up from the hold.The furious waves, catching the ragged edges of the hole the broken shaft had made, had suddenly peeled off the iron plates as though they were so much paper, had wrenched oak beams and planks away as easily as a man crushes an eggshell in his hand, and now all hope of ever erecting a barricade was eternally gone.The ship was doomed! One glance into the captain's face told Lord Desmond that, even before he heard the cry: "Summon all hands on deck and make ready the lifeboats."No one who has not actually been in a shipwreck will ever be able to fully realize the scene that followed, for it beggars all description.In one moment of time the deck was covered with

hundreds of panic-stricken wretches, screaming, cursing, battling, praying like so many madmen.Mothers rushed to their children and caught them in their arms and shrieked unintelligible. things to them and to God; men fought with their brothers for life-belts, women battled with their sisters for "places" as the line was made up for filling the first boat that should be lowered; sons hurled their fathers from their path, fathers trampled their sons under foot in their eagerness to reach the line, and then a hundred yells and a hundred times a hundred curses rolled up above the din as the captain put his trumpet to his lips and bawled out lustily:"Women and children first, and no man leaves till the last of those has gone!"Oh! the cries of disappointment that rang from the lips of those who were not in line for the first boat; and, oh! the shriek of horror
that instantly took their place when, a moment after the first boat was launched, it was suddenly caught up by the angry sea, turned completely over, and its doomed freight whirled away, nevermore to meet the eyes of men.A second—a third boat were quickly filled, and as quickly met with the same fate.No matter; there was always a crowd waiting for the next one, and always the belief that this one would survive.Seven times the watchers of this terrible scene saw that tragedy enacted, until scarce a handful of women remained of all who, so short a time before, had stood upon the deck. But still the boats were lowered, and still the eager throng pressed on.Lord Desmond, standing with his wife locked close to his bosom and his lips frozen to silence by the horror of it all, saw when the eighth boat was lowered, and saw, too, that there were barely enough women left to fill it."Go, my darling!" he said, through his shut teeth"

as he stooped and kissed her. "Be brave, and go, and if we never more should meet on earth, believe that I love you always—always—always! Look! the boat is ready. It is your turn at last. Go, and God bless you!"But she only put her arms around his neck and looked at him with her great, dark eyes, like a dog that is faithful to its master."Hark! they are calling you!" he said. "Kiss me, love, and go!""No," she answered, "I will go only when you go, even if it be only in the last boat. I am not afraid to die with you. Hold me fast, dear. I will not go—will not—will not until I may go with you.""Neither will I," said a frightened voice at her side—the voice of Jemima Ann. "I'll go when you and him goes; I will never before!"CHAPTER XII.
INTO THE DEEP."Come, young woman! Come, Mrs. Smith! There's not a moment to lose!" rang out the voice of the captain. "For God's sake, don't delay us now, for there are all the male passengers to attend to yet, and the vessel is sinking rapidly!""I am not going," responded Gypsy simply. "if it is death, we will die together. Put some one else in the boat, please. I shall stay with my husband to the last.""And so shall I," supplemented Jemima Ann. "I ain't got no one to live for but just them two, mister, and I'd rather die with 'em than be saved without 'em; so, if you please, I'll stay, too, and—and mind the baggage, just like Mr. Smith told me to."She was sitting on it even then, and there was a look on her small, elfish face that plainly betokened the fact that only force would ever move her until the end.So the boat was filled without her or her mistress, two men—the first in the first line—being chosen in their stead, and of all that had been launched this was the first to get away from the vessel's side without being capsized."Oh, why did you not go with it? Why have you done this rash thing?" cried out Lord Desmond, looking down into his wife's eyes as he saw the boat climb safely up the sides of the great waves and go safely on its way from the wreck. "Always there must have been one boat, at least, that would get away safely, and, look! that is the one that Heaven chose!""Let it go; let me not look at it; let me look only at you," she answered, looking up into his face with

a smile. "It was 'until death shall ye part,' you know, and only death shall.""Ah, but this is madness, dear.""No—it is love!" she answered softly, "and perfect love casteth out fear. I am not afraid. I can shut my eyes and die without a cry if only you will hold me. I had not lived until I met you. Teach me to die, as you taught me to live, and I shall ask nothing of Heaven but that it will let your arms cling around me until I can no longer feel when they slip away.""Rig up the life raft; there will not be sufficient boats!" broke in the voice of the captain at this juncture, as he put his trumpet to his lips and bawled his orders to the crew. "Move briskly. The ship is settling fast, and we have not a moment to lose!""You hear?" exclaimed Lord Desmond, in agony. "Go with the next boat—go, I beg of you.""Are you in line for the next?""No, for the second after that; but—""Then for the second after that I will wait.""Gypsy!""Yes," she repeated. "You are my heaven—my all! To love you is my religion, and I will not become an apostate. In the third boat we shall go if the ship remains afloat until then, but if not— It will be very easy, very painless, and I will not struggle if you will only keep your arms around me to the last. What does it matter so that we are together and nothing divides us until life is done?"His only answer was to stoop and lay his ice-cold lips on hers and to hold her tight as though he already felt the waters around him.So, while the vessel slowly settled and the boats were lowered one by one, he stood and held her, not saying one word, not making any sound.And, while they stood thus, their boat was swung out upon the davits preparatory to being lowered into the sea."Now, then, Mr. Smith!" sung out the captain; "we are at the fifth line at last, and— Stand back, there, you scoundrels!" as all the men of the fifth line rushed wildly forward—"the women first, and not a man goes in until they are seated. Quickly, quickly, Mrs. Smith. Don't hesitate. I swear to Heaven that your husband shall be the first man to follow!""At last, at last!" said Gypsy, as she reached up and kissed her husband; then, putting his arms away from her, she walked forward and laid her hand in the captain's."You are a brave woman—a brave woman—and worthy of him," he said, as he pressed the little, white hand that lay in his; then, without another word, he helped her into the boat and watched her take her seat."Now, then, you next, young woman, and after you, your master," he said, as he turned to Jemima Ann.And, lo! as he spoke something happened that nobody could have foreseen.Catching up the suit case the girl sprang forward, and, divining the captain's intention as he stooped to snatch the useless encumbrance from her, quickly dodged him, and, still holding her precious burden, threw herself headlong into the dangling boat.The shock of the heavy weight coming down suddenly produced its natural result—the rope by which the boat was to be lowered from the davits was jerked suddenly from the hands of the men who held it, and, like a flash, the boat shot down to the sea with its two occupants, and caught upon the crest of a receding wave, was whirled swiftly away.One sharp, agonized cry broke from Gypsy's lips as she realized her position, and, rising suddenly in the rocking boat, she reached out her empty arms."Hamilton!" she wildly cried. "Hamilton, they have parted us! Oh my love! my love! let me not die away from you!'"Over the tossing waters that piteous cry floated, and my lord, hearing it, sprang suddenly forward."I am coming, I am coming to you, dear!" he cried out in response. Then, with a frantic movement, he divested himself of his coat, climbed up on the bulwarks, and leaped headlong into the sea.For one instant, as she was borne aloft upon the crest of a wave, Gypsy saw his descending figure cleaving the air, then her boat seemed to sink down into a deep, blue valley between two liquid mountains, and, when it came up on the crest of the next wave, a frightful sight met her staring eyes.For the steamer had suddenly keeled over and gone down like a shot, and of my Lord Philip Desmond there was never a sign.She had seen him go down into the deep; but though she strained her eyes and prayed to God and all the angels of heaven to give him back to her, she never saw him come up again.CHAPTER XIII.
A FRUITLESS MISSION.When Mr. Matthew Sleaford hurried away from the scene of his brutal attack upon his false wife, and left that vindictive creature lying upon the ground, he did so in the full belief that he had accomplished his work, and that death had rid him of all further interference upon the part of Ada Detheredge.If he had doubted that—if he had thought for an instant that there was the slightest possibility of her surviving his murderous attack upon her—he would have gone back instantly and finished his work, and the rest of this story would never have been written.But he did not think it, he did not even in the vaguest possible manner suspect that so much as one spark of life remained in her body, and he raced onward through the darkness, eager to put as great a distance as possible between him and the scene of his crime."She'll deceive no more men—she'll do no more mischief in
this world," he muttered, as he ran. "After years of waiting, that
debt is paid, and the score wiped out. But I'll have to get away from
here now—I'll have to disappear at once, and change my name for
the second time since I have been in this accursed country—for
her body will be found in the morning, at the latest, and when her
effects are searched, who knows but something may be discovered that
will put detectives upon my track? She had my picture, in the old times, I recollect, and, although it is hardly likely that she has kept either that or my letters during all these years, there is always a chance that she has. Women are strange creatures, and there is no telling what they will do. So I must get away—get away at once—and leave no clew behind!"Having arrived at this conclusion, he redoubled his

speed and did not cease running even for an instant, until he had put two good miles between him and his crafty victim.His path lay not in the direction of the famous city by the sea; but, on the contrary, he had turned his back toward that, and, like a rabbit seeking its burrow, ran in the direction of the outlying country lands, leaping over ditches, vaulting fences, cutting his way through fields of ripening grain and rustling groves of tasseled corn, where the fruitful ears and the feathery broom rose far above his head and the long, stiff leaves shielded his body as he ran.Nothing stayed him. He kept to no road, he spared no garden or field or carefully planted bit of farmland that offered him a shorter cut to the point he aimed at reaching; and, in consequence of that, more than one honest husbandman was sore of heart next morning when he viewed the wide swath that was cut through his barley or oats or wheat, or saw where his promising melon and cucumber vines were trampled into the earth by the feet of this eager runner.Quite three-quarters of an hour had elapsed since his meeting and
parting with Ada Detheredge when he finally came in sight of a modest
little farmhouse whose gateway was embellished by a signboard which
informed the world at large that it was "Rose Hill Farm," and
"Boarders Taken." Slackening his pace, he walked to this, slipped
through the gateway of the little inclosure in front of it,
soundlessly made his way to one of the front windows, opened it, climbed into the room beyond, and vanished.Ten minutes later, having exchanged his blood-spattered garments, washed his hands, and removed all traces of his crime, he reappeared, and, climbing softly out of the window, walked boldly to the door and knocked for admittance.His summons was answered by a bustling, rosy-cheeked, fat, little woman in trim calico dress and

an immaculate white apron, and at sight of him this personage smiled graciously and made room for him to enter."Well, I swan! if it ain't Mr. Hawkins come back a'ready!" exclaimed this worthy woman."Yes, Mrs. Hotchkiss, it is I, fast enough," responded Sleaford, as he stalked in, "and my unexpected return isn't the harbinger of the best news you have heard this day, I shall do myself the honor of believing.""Law, now if you mean that you want your supper in spite o' your sayin' that you wouldn't, don't let that trouble you, Mr. Hawkins," returned Mrs. Hotchkiss, beaming upon him as country ladies are apt to beam upon their only boarder when he liquidates in advance and isn't home to a third of his meals for which he pays."It's true that the table's been cleared off and Mandy's washed the dishes and done up the room, but if you're hungry and don't mind a cold snack—""No, it isn't that," interposed Mr. Sleaford promptly. "The fact is, I've just received a cablegram calling me back to Scotland directly, Mrs. Hotchkiss, and I shall be obliged to leave without an instant's delay. It's true, I expected to stop here for a fortnight, and have only been here three days in all, but I'll pay you for the time I anticipated remaining, so you won't lose anything by the operation.""Law, Mr. Hawkins, how awful kind of you, to be sure. I've always heern tell that you Scotch folks—she would have said Irish or French if he had claimed that he was of either nation—is uncommon generous, and now I know it to be a fact."Mr. Sleaford did not wait for the completion of this eulogy upon the characteristics of a race to which he did not belong, but stalking by her, walked into his room and forthwith began to prepare for instant flight.It did not take him long to pack up the one port-

manteau which constituted his full complement of luggage—it took him still less time to settle with Mrs. Hotchkiss and get out of the house, and, having declined her friendly offer to have "Cyrus hitch up and carry him and his valise wherever he was a-going without askin' a penny for doin' on it," he stepped briskly out into the odorous sweetness of the night, and as soon as he was well out of sight and sound, turned in the direction of the nearest railway station."Now, then, what shall be my next destination?" he thought, as he strode along under the summer star-shine. "Lucky for me that this night's affair did not happen before I had time to examine the register of every first-class hotel in Newport, or I should have to fly without knowing if Philip Desmond is here or not. But I know now that he is not here, curse him! nor has he ever been here, for none of the hotel registers bear his name; none of the newspapers whose files I have searched even so much as mention the name of Lord Desmond, nor have I been able to trace him or learn what has become of him since the day of his arrival in the country."He seems to have vanished completely off the face of the earth, and yet I know that he came here, for his solicitor told me so in confidence, that day when I returned from my visit to Asquith's home in Devonshire and found Thetford Castle given up to the care of the servants and Desmond gone, they knew not where. But I will find him—I must find him!" he went on furiously, as he savagely kicked at the pebbles in his path and sent them flying in fifty different directions. "He shan't balk me like this—he shan't cheat me out of the best chance I've ever had—the only chance I ever may have to sweep him out of my path forever and by one bold stroke make myself the lord of Thetford Castle and the master of millions."I am tired of existing upon his bounty, tired of having to live upon a beggarly allowance of a thou-

sand pounds a year. And if by a crime I can remove the one obstacle
that stands in my path to fortune, and so write myself the lord of
Thetford Castle and heir to millions, that crime I am willing to
commit a thousand times over. I am his cousin. I am the next of kin, as the lawyers say; no life but his stands between me and the goal of my ambition, and if it is in my power, that life I will trample beneath my heels."A light of bitter malignity illumined his face, and the bare thought that he, Matthew Sleaford, the penniless adventurer; Matthew Sleaford, the ex-gambler, ex-thief, ex-galley slave, might one day stand under the roof tree of Thetford Castle its happy possessor, its legitimate lord and by right of birth the lawful legatee of all the wealth and honors, to all the historic splendors and all the grand traditions of the race of Desmond—at that thought a smile wreathed his lips and his bosom swelled with pride."Maggie Twyford used to predict when she told my fortune with the cards in the old days under the chestnut trees, when I was sweet on her and she was the prettiest farmer's lass in the whole County of Kent—Maggie Twyford used to predict that I would one day be lord of the castle, and, by Heaven, if it is in human power to compel it, I swear that that prediction shall come true!" he went on resolutely, his face darkening and hardening until it gleamed in the moonlight like a mask of stone, as a recollection evoked by his own words came stealing back into his mind. "But, pshaw! what puts that girl's name into my, mouth to-night? I have not spoken it for years, and but for the fact that Desmond has recently taken that black-browed brother of hers into his employ and set him up as the steward of Thetford Castle, she would long ago have faded out of my memory."When the girl disappeared so mysteriously, and her father sold out and went with the rest of his family to Australia to begin life anew as a colonial sheep

farmer, I thought I had heard the last of them, and now this rascally Ned Twyford, grown a man since those days, comes back and enters my life again. What can he be after, I wonder. What has brought the fellow back after all these years? His mother is dead, his father is dead, his sister is dead. What brings him back, then, unless it be to ferret out— No! I won't think of that. I won't think of anything to-night but the work I have in hand. Whatever Ned Twyford's game is, I'll balk it, never fear, and if ever I am the lord of Thetford Castle I'll give him his walking papers in short order, and he shall go where the sight of him will trouble me no more."But to-night I will think only of my mission, think only of the scheme which has brought me over three thousand miles of ocean to seek Lord Philip Desmond and win myself a fortune and a title. That he is here I know; that I would find him in one of the fashionable resorts of American society I felt sure when I came; but, though I have searched through many, I have found no trace of him, and now where shall I seek him next?"He rounded a curve and came suddenly in sight of the station. "I have not searched through every fashionable resort as yet, and I swear to Heaven that I will not cease hunting until I have done so. What better can I do, then, than to go back to New York, get a fresh list of society's summer haunts, and then start anew. Yes, yes, I'll do that; for neither Desmond nor anybody else in the world knows that I am in America, and I must succeed in the end."So, without further cogitation upon the subject, he made his way to the station, purchased a ticket, and half an hour later, while the man he sought was flying with his bride to the hills of Massachusetts, Mr. Matthew Sleaford was speeding off in the opposite direction, and his "mission" was already destined to result in utter failure.CHAPTER XIV.
FROM DREAMS TO WAKING.July had passed away; August had vanished; September had come and was gone. Already society was deserting its favorite nooks by field and mountain and sea and flocking back to the cities it had so long deserted; already the crowds at the summer resorts had thinned out and some of the grand hotels were going into their winter clothing; already the beaches were deserted, the mountain paths grown desolate, the fields abandoned, and where once the city swell was conspicuous and the city dame preëminent, the country lass and her rustic sweetheart held undisputed sway, and it was the carpenter, and not the millionaire, the cleaner, not the belle, whose footsteps echoed down the wide porches or through the gilded salons of the grand hotels.The crowd had gone, society had gone, and, empty-handed still, his money squandered for naught, his labor wasted, his "mission" a failure, and his great chance vanished from his grasp forever—Mr. Matthew Sleaford paced the streets of Saratoga alone. Far and near he had hunted for his missing kinsman, yet hunted for him in vain. He had looked for him in the mountains, he had searched for him by the sea, he had sought him at "the Springs," but nothing, always nothing, was the result, and now the end had come—the bitter, dispiriting, disappointing end—and it was useless to hope longer."It is all up!" he said dismally, as he looked dejectedly around upon the boarded-up hotels, the closed spas, the almost deserted streets, and the changing foliage of the glorified trees. "It is all up. The season is over, and now nothing remains but for me to go

back to England and write my task a failure. Curse me if I believe that Desmond is in the country at all. If he had been, surely the papers would have made some mention of it or I would have met somebody who had heard of his existence."It is not possible that a man as fond as he of the good things of life—a man with money enough to gratify his whims and to throw it away in handfuls in pursuit of the pleasures he loves—surely it is not possible that such a man would deliberately turn his back upon all social enjoyments, all social functions, and the companionship of people of culture and refinement, to spend his time among farmers in some cheap, out-of-the-way boarding place, where the only 'society' is that represented by clerks on their vacation or school-teachers enjoying their summer holidays."No, no! He would never have done that—I know him too well. He has a strong love for brilliant assemblies, for bright ballrooms, for witty company, for men and women of gentle breeding, and he would be as likely to commit suicide as to bury himself amid such surroundings as I, for security's sake, have been compelled to endure for weeks past."No, he is not in America—he is not, and I know it now; for I have sought him in every place where he would be likely to go, and in each one his very name is a thing unknown. He came here—yes. there is proof of that. He came here, but he did not stay here—I know it now."For some reason, known only to himself, he went back home
immediately—perhaps by the very next steamer, and while I have
been searching for him here, doubtless he has been at Thetford Castle
all the time, and wondering what has become of me that I
do not write him from Spain, where I told the servants I was going."So, then, my great. chance is lost, my mission is

at an end, and nothing remains but for me to go back to England and give it up. Even if he were here I could not seek him now, for my money has given out; I dare not write for more, for that would betray my whereabouts, and beyond a few dollars and the ticket for my return voyage upon the steamer that brought me here, I haven't a shilling in the world. No, I can do nothing but go back, and go back immediately, for I have barely sufficient to pay my way to New York and keep me from going hungry until the steamer sails."It was a dreary end to all the high hopes he had so long held, but it was beyond him to alter it; and so he was obliged to face the inevitable. Railing against fate, and cursing the thing he called his "luck," he turned his face toward the railway station, and nightfall coming down found him lodged in a third-rate hotel in lower New York, dismally awaiting the sailing of the steamer that was to take him back to England.He had shipped under the name of Hawkins when he came here, and it was under the name of Hawkins that he now went back.September's last week was waning when he sailed out of port and left Columbia's green hills behind him, and October had dawned before the vessel dropped anchor in the Mersey and discharged her passengers at Liverpool.Being reduced to almost his last shilling, it was impossible for Sleaford to journey on by rail to London—to say nothing of the farther journey down into Kent, where Thetford Castle lay. Therefore he went straight to the Adelphi Hotel, engaged a suite of apartments, and telegraphed at once to Lord Desmond, begging him to send him some money without delay and promising to explain upon his arrival how he came to be in Liverpool and utterly devoid of cash.It was early morning when he sent that telegram—

it was after nightfall when the answer came, and came in a form he had not expected.A servant coming into his room with a bit of paste-board upon a silver salver announced that a visitor awaited below."A visitor?" repeated Sleaford. "A visitor for me? Who can it be? I know nobody in Liverpool."Then he took up the card and glanced at it, and gave a violent start as he read the name it bore."Show the man up at once," he said, as he dismissed the servant, and then, as the door closed, and he was once more alone, "Ned Twyford," he added under his breath. "What puzzle is this? What brings Ned Twyford here and to see me? Has anything come to light? Has Desmond discovered and thrown me over—and has he sent Ned Twyford here to tell me that he has cut off the allowance and I need hope to receive no more money at his hands so long as I live? If that should be the case, what shall I do? Oh, this suspense—this terrible suspense! Will Twyford never come and put an end to it?"Yes, Twyford would; for even as the wretched schemer spoke the words the door opened and closed gently, and a heavy-featured, black-browed, sullen-looking man of perhaps twenty-five years of age stood in the room.Sleaford stopped to make no preparatory remarks."Speak quickly!" he gasped, as he sprang toward the man. "Have you come in answer to my telegram?"Twyford nodded."Have you brought the money?"Twyford nodded again.The reaction was too great, and, with a laugh, Sleaford dropped into the nearest chair and for a moment was too much overcome to speak."Excellent fellow! Sit down and let me ring for a drop of whisky for you," he said, at length. "It's

a long journey from the castle—six hours by rail at the very least—and you must be quite fagged out, Ned.""Thanky, my lord, it is a goodish bit to come, but it hasn't fagged me," responded Twyford. "I was always one of the sturdy kind, you recollect.""Indeed I do, Ned. There wasn't your match in strength for your size and age when you were a lad, I remember. You Twyfords were all a sturdy set—strong of limb and mind, and could run like deer without fagging out. Even Maggie, pretty little thing that she was, more like a boy than a girl in that respect, I remember, poor, unfortunate little lass. But, of course, you don't remember much about her! You were too young at the time of her mysterious disappearance.""I remember enough to know that she broke her poor old mother's heart, aye, and her father's, too—and that I loved her as I never loved anything before and have never loved anything since," responded Ned, lowering his eyes. "I was fifteen at the time she disappeared, and we were more than brother and sister to each other, as the word goes. She used to confide in me and I used to confide in her, till I was sure that we never had any secrets from each other.""Ah! then, perhaps, you know with whom she went on the night when she disappeared so mysteriously?""I wish I did," responded Ned sullenly. "That was the only secret she ever kept from me, my lord, and better for her if she'd never kept that. People said she'd fallen in with a city chap, and had run away and gone to the bad. That's what drove the old folks to Australia—they couldn't stand the disgrace, you see; but, as for me, I never believed it and I never will—Maggie Twyford was an honest lass, if ever there was one, and either she was murdered in cold blood upon that long-ago night or—or—she went away with one as she'd a right to go away with—

went away and became an honest wife and not the lost creature that people said.""For your sake let us hope that your suspicions are true," responded Sleaford, as he cut off the end of a cigar and lighted it. "Still you must admit that there are two things against it: One, that no banns were ever published, and no record of such a marriage set down upon the register of any church in the whole parish, or, indeed, in the whole county, for the matter of that.""It might have been solemnized in London, and the banns published there by previous arrangement," said Ned."There are many churches in London, and it would take years to ferret out and visit them all.""Granted, but that only brings me to the second objection I was about to mention. If such a marriage was performed, how do you reconcile yourself to the fact that Maggie never came back, never communicated even with her parents, and never took any steps to relieve her name of the odium cast upon it?""I don't know—I can't tell," responded Ned huskily. "I've thought of it often out there in the wilds of Australia—thought of it till my head ached and I couldn't stand it any longer.""And so you came back to solve the mystery, eh, and ferret out the truth?""Yes—no—I can't tell. Perhaps I did, and perhaps I didn't. I don't even know myself. I only know that something stronger than a mere whim got into my head and made me come—made me want to return to the old place where Maggie and I were so happy as children, and so I gave in to it and came. But—well, if you please, I have great news to tell you, and the lawyers have been seeking for word of you everywhere, my lord."My lord! It was the fourth time he had made use of that form of address, and Matthew Sleaford, who

had overlooked it before, could not overlook it this time. An angry flush mounted to his brow, and the natural dislike he felt for Ned Twyford deepened into wrath."I don't know whether you are presuming to make game of me," he cried out angrily, "but I do know that I won't tolerate it. No matter who has egged you on. A jest I may stand from an equal, but I will not stand it from an inferior; so put an end to your insolence at once.""Insolence, my lord?""Stop it, I tell you!""Stop what, my lord?""Hang you, if you say that word again I'll fling you out of the window. How dare you jest with me? What do you mean by presuming to call me 'my lord,' confound you? Drop it, do you hear? Drop it at once, or by Heaven—""Stop!" interposed Ned, his face paling suddenly will something like absolute hatred flashing out of his dark eyes. "I shouldn't take a blow calmly, even from you, whom I respect because you were kind to my poor sister in those old days. Stop and listen to me. Mr. Haggie, the solicitor, sent me here to say this to you. He received the telegram you sent to the castle to-day, but was too ill to come in person. If I have given you a title, it is because you have a right to bear one, and because you are now, in the eyes of the law and by privilege from the crown, Matthew, Marquis of Desmond!""What's that you say?" gasped Sleaford, starting toward him."The truth, my lord!'' he answered without flinching. "Lord Philip Desmond is dead—drowned in the wreck of the Atlantic more than two months ago—and you are now, by virtue of lineal descent, Marquis of Desmond and Baron Camperdown!"CHAPTER XV.
BY THE DEAD HAND.For one moment Matthew Sleaford stood and looked at him, with eyes dilated, with lips parted, with every vestige of color gone out of his handsome, evil face."Are you mad?" he exclaimed, in a strange, hoarse voice. "Are you mad, or is this some trick, some jest, some game that is being played upon me?""No, my lord. On my word of honor, it is not.""It is true, then?""As true as Heaven. Your cousin, Lord Philip Desmond, is dead, and his title and estates now belong to you."For yet another moment Sleaford was silent, his head whirling, then he gave one sudden cry, one backward step and—fainted. He—a titled man—a peer of the realm, fell into the very chair where he had sat ten minutes before, a tortured, terrified, anxious pauper.Ned Twyford did not offer to touch him. For a moment he stood and looked down into the handsome white face that lay against the cushioned back of the chair with the lamplight gleaming upon it, then he walked deliberately to the bell rope and rang for a servant."Fetch some brandy," he said, when the man appeared. "My master, Lord Desmond, is ill and needs it."The servant came back presently with a decanter and a glass.Ned Twyford took it from him, dismissed him at once, closed the door, and, pouring out half a glassful of brandy, set it down beside the unconscious man. He did not offer to assist him, did not make the slight-

est movement toward hastening his recovery by administering the
stimulant he had ordered, only took his place beside him, and with one hand resting upon the little table where he had placed the brandy, stood and watched him with an odd look upon his dark, inscrutable face.For fully five minutes they remained thus—the unconscious master, the silent, moveless, imperturbable man—then suddenly the figure in the chair quivered."Drink this, my lord," said Ned Twyford, putting the brandy into his hand and turning upon him a tender, solicitous face that was utterly unlike the face it was one moment ago. "Do you know that you fainted? Ah! I always knew that you were fond of Lord Philip, but who could tell that you would take the news of his death so much to heart?""Dead! Philip dead!" gulped Sleaford, as he drained the glass and set it down empty. "Oh, are you sure it is no mistake? Are you positive of what you say?""Positive, my lord, for we have the testimony of an eyewitness to
his death—the testimony of the quartermaster of the Atlantic, the sole surviving man of all its passengers and crew. Lord Desmond was drowned in leaping from the vessel to swim to the rescue of his wife and—""His wife!" almost shouted Sleaford, leaping from his chair. "Philip Desmond's wife, did you say? Do you mean to tell me he was married?""Yes, my lord," responded Twyford. "He was married to a girl he met in America—married secretly—and was bringing her over to England when the wreck occurred.""Married! Married!" cried out Sleaford, staggering under the blow. "Married! and the fortune is not entailed with the title! What, then, have I inherited that is worth possessing? Only the empty name, only the barren title, for all else is hers. Every stick and

stone of his property—every farthing of his money belongs to her—to his wretched American wife—and I—just Heaven! I am only a titled pauper. But I won't believe it—I won't, I won't, I won't," he went on wildly, as he flung himself from side to side of the room and kicked savagely at everything that came in his way."I'll dispute her claim, I'll fight her to the death. She shan't cheat me of my rights, she shan't rob me of my wealth. It is mine—mine by inheritance—mine by the right of lineal descent, and she shall not wrest it from me. I won't believe in this marriage. It is a trick, a trap, some cunning Yankee dodge to do me out of my inheritance, and I'll fight it to the last gasp."It is not true, I tell you—it can't be true. Philip Desmond was never married, and this woman, who claims his name is an impostor!""Unfortunately for your belief, my lord, there is proof.""Proof? What proof? Who can testify to the truth of such a thing?""The late Marquis of Desmond himself, my lord," responded Ned."With his own hand he wrote the acknowledgement of the marriage, and here is that acknowledgement.""A letter?""Yes, my lord, a letter addressed to you and only
opened by Mr. Haggie because the envelope was
marked 'immediate' and addressed in Lord Philip's
handwriting. You being in Spain, Mr. Haggie ventured to open and read it, suspecting that it might contain some order
that must be attended to at once. Just where you were in Spain you
never sent word, nor could any trace of you be discovered when news of
the wreck reached England, and it was known all over the kingdom that poor Lord Philip had perished."Here is the letter—take it, my lord, and read the
truth of the marriage as written by Lord Philip's own

hand, and learn how we know that the Mr. George Smith, who went down
with the wreck of the Atlantic, was your predecessor, the late Marquis of Desmond and master of Thetford Castle."Speaking, he put the letter into Sleaford's hand—that fateful letter dated "In the wilds of Massachusetts, July fifteenth," and written upon that memorable night in Miss Jerusha Pattison's parlor.Bearing it to the light, the new heir eagerly read it through. So he knew at last why the name of Lord Desmond had never figured upon the register of any hotel, and why he had sought him yet found no clew!"It is true—all true!" he cried out despairingly as he finished the letter, and, crushing it into a ball, threw it savagely from him. "He did marry, and this girl Gypsy—this Yankee wife of his—is now Marchioness of Desmond and legatee to all his wealth. But I'll fight her—I'll fight her to the death, Twyford. What is law in America is not always law in England. He married her under an assumed name, remember, and I may have a point in my favor there. If she will consent to be bought off, well and good, but if she shows fight—""The dead cannot fight, my lord," interposed Ned Twyford, "and my lady, the Marchioness of Desmond, has ceased to exist.""You mean—""She died when her husband died, my lord. She and her maid were in a lifeboat when Lord Desmond went down in trying to swim to her, and the same man who was an eyewitness to his death saw that lifeboat overturned a minute afterward, and upon his testimony we know that her ladyship, too, was drowned. You are, therefore, not only possessor of the title, but heir to the whole estate."The whole room seemed to spin round before Sleaford's eyes, and again a sensation of weakness attacked him.Without a crime he had won the stake for which he had so long been playing; without shedding one drop of his kinsman's blood, the barrier had been swept away, and he was lord and heir at last!"Get me some more brandy!" he gasped. "No, get me champagne, champagne—the wine of wealth, the drink of princes. I'll touch no other, all the rest of my life."Without a word Ned Twyford stepped to the door, opened it, closed it behind him, and went to do his master's bidding."Oh, Maggie! My sister!" he said, in a wavering, husky voice, as he hurried away. "I know it now, lass, I know it now, where I only suspected it before. If you are living, dear, you are the Marchioness of Desmond this night, but if you are dead that man is your murderer, and I'll run him down if I track him till the Judgment Day!"CHAPTER XVI.
TEMPESTUOUS WATERS.Was the testimony of the rescued quartermaster true? Had he really seen the boat containing Gypsy and Jemima Ann overturned, as he had said, or was it, after all, only a freak of his imagination?Certainly, he imagined that he saw the boat capsized, for in that awful moment when the sea was literally strewn with other overturned boats; when his own life hung, as it were, upon a mere thread and the possibility, nay, almost the certainty, that his end had come distorted his vision and distracted his mind, the man may be forgiven for imagining anything, and who shall blame him if, when he rose to the surface and struck out for some piece of the wreckage with which the tempestuous sea was strewn, he fully believed that Gypsy's boat was among the many overturned ones that floated about him?The waves were running mountains high, and he could, therefore, see nothing that was not in his immediate neighborhood, and, as he had just strength enough to lash himself to the bit of wreckage to which he had swam before he lost consciousness from sheer joy at his deliverance, he saw nothing of the lifeboat which, a moment later, rose into view upon the crest of a great wave some two hundred yards distant, and then, in the twinkling of an eye, dipped out of sight again in the trough of the next billow.But even if he had seen it he would have been no wiser, for no human shape stood or sat within it, and to all intents and purposes it was an empty boat that floated alone upon the stormy sea.Had the man been near enough to peer over its high gunwale and looked down into the body of it, he

would have seen the white, unconscious form of a woman lying stretched out in the bottom of it, and over her the crouching form of a wild-eyed, terrified girl, who was patting her hands, rubbing her cheeks, and doing everything in her power to restore her beloved mistress.For in the moment she realized that her husband was drowned, Gypsy had fallen as though dead, and a merciful oblivion had shut down upon her tortured brain."Oh, she's dying! She's dying!" wailed Jemima Ann, when, after repeated endeavors, it became certain that no effort of hers could break up that death-like swoon. "Oh, Lord, if you're looking down and see everything, please have mercy on me and don't take away the only friend I've got in the world. Help me, Lord! Don't take her away; don't let her die! Oh, Lord, please hear me. Amen!"It was a simple prayer, but in it there was the pulsating fervor of an earnest heart; the simple faith of a mind that staggered blindly under the weight of creeds, yet somehow found the truth that lies beyond all creeds, and, as an eagle that walks blunderingly yet is strong of wing and swift of flight, her faith spread out its pinions and flew straight home.She crouched down in the boat and waited, and after a time her faith was justified, for God had heard and Gypsy was reviving.By this time the day had advanced near to its close. Dark shadows—the shadows of approaching nightfall—were veiling the sky; rain and fog hung thickly over the sea, and nothing, not even a floating spar or art empty boat, was visible anywhere to bear witness to that awful wreck.Gypsy, assisted by the tender, loving hands of Jemima Ann, sat up and listened in a queer, benumbed sort of way to what the child said to her while Jemima Ann kissed her hands and wept and laughed over

them; listened while she blessed God for answering her prayer; listened and looked with dreary, hopeless eyes at the tossing wares of the fog-blotted sea; then all of a sudden a cry broke from her—a cry of anguish and despair—and putting her hands together she looked up at the darkening sky."Oh, he is dead—he, my husband, my darling, my one link to life, and I have nothing left to live for—nothing! nothing! nothing!""Oh, Mrs. Smith, don't take on so," wailed Jemima Ann, sinking down on her knees beside her and looking up into her face with the dumb devotion of a dog. "Oh, don't speak like that, for that would be punishing me, and I ain't done nothin' wrong that I know of. Oh, don't say that you ain't got nothin' left to live for, but—but just live for me, and maybe God'll let us be happy ag'in after a time. I know I ain't fit to be mentioned in the same breath with—with what you've lost, but, oh! live for me, Mrs. Smith, live for me!"But Gypsy neither heard nor understood.The madness of desolation was upon her and she could only wring her hands and stare at the tossing sea."Oh, cruel sea, remorseless sea, how could you drown him?" she cried out frantically. "Oh, give him back to me; give him back to me! He was all I had upon earth, and I loved him so; I loved him so! I broke my father's heart for his sake! Could you not let me keep him after that?""Mrs. Smith! Please, Mrs. Smith—""Oh, give him back to me; give him back to me!" went on in that wild voice. "Was it not enough I gave up to be his wife? My father would have killed him had he found him; would have killed me, too, if he knew that I had married him; will kill me even yet if in his hate he succeeds in running me down!
Oh, why could you not have let me keep my love,

or, if he must perish, why could you not have let me die with him? I have lost him, lost him, lost him! Oh, let me die, too!"And there that wild appeal ended, for, in spite of Jemima Ann's outstretched arms, she fell forward upon her face and lay writhing in mental delirium.Jemima Ann did not offer to touch her now. Instinctively she knew that it would be no use; knew that fever was in her veins; knew that madness was in her brain, and so crouched there in the gathering darkness and stared at her. But not one word of Gypsy's maddened outburst had escaped her ears, and, as she huddled there, she was thinking it all out in her own way."She married Mr. Smith against her father's will," she said, in a queer, hushed voice; "married him and ran away with him, and—and she said that her father would kill her for it if he ever found her out."Then he mustn't find her out," she added, after a pause. "If ever we are saved nobody must know who she is, or that father of hers would follow her and kill her. And that's why they come to Miss Jerusha's so mysterious like; that's why they never went nowhere, but just buried themselves in that dreary old farmhouse and stayed there until the ship got ready to sail. Her father was after them, and they was a-hidin' to git away from him."But perhaps he's found it all out since; perhaps he's traced 'em
to Miss Jerusha's, and, if he has, Miss Jerusha'll consider it her Christian duty to tell all she knows and put him on the track. P'rhaps he is on the track a'reddy; p'rhaps he knows that they sailed on the Atlantic and took me with 'em, and if he does—"Her voice died away, and she sat silent for a minute or two, staring blankly at the sea and squeezing her hands hard."I guess God answered that prayer of mine because

I always tried to do right and never told a lie in my life," she said presently. "But if that's so, He'll never answer another one, for I'm going to tell a lie as soon as ever I get the chance. Nobody shan't know that she is Mrs. Smith what sailed on the Atlantic; nobody shan't know that we ever heard tell of that ship. I'll lie for her sake. I'll even steal for her sake if I have to do it, and if ever her wicked father finds her, he'll have to kill me before he can get at her!"And then, sinking down beside the figure of her delirious mistress, she laid one trembling arm across Gypsy's shoulders and reverently kissed her hair."I said I'd die for you if you didn't let them send me back to the mission," she whispered softly; "and you didn't let them do it. I said I'd die for you if you done that, Mrs. Smith, and if there's ever a need for it, I'm going to stand by my word and be killed a-fightin' for you."And then she grew quite still, while the darkness of the night shut slowly down over the tempestuous waters and the boat went drifting on.CHAPTER XVII.
RESCUED AT LAST.Throughout all that dismal, dangerous night Gypsy never spoke
another rational word—only lay there in the bottom of the boat
and raved in wild delirium, for the awful mental strain she had
endured during the long hours that the ultimate fate of the Atlantic was undecided, combined with the shock of her husband's loss at the very moment when salvation seemed certain, had been too much for her mind to bear up under, and a fierce attack of brain fever had supervened.Ignorant as she was on most subjects, Jemima Ann had still sense enough to realize that brain-fever patients might do themselves injury if they were not closely guarded, so to prevent Gypsy springing into the sea in her delirium, she took off her skirt, tore it in strips, and lashed her mistress, hand and foot, to the seats of the lifeboat.All through that night and all through the day that followed it, this faithful servitress watched beside her, scarcely daring to sleep until exhausted nature compelled her to do so.Fortunately the boat had been provisioned prior to the accident which had prematurely set it adrift.There was a little cask of water, a bag of biscuits, and some tins of potted meat that opened with a sort of key; therefore, there was no danger of their having to face starvation, even should they be afloat for a week or more. It was not until the first of these tins of meat was emptied that Jemima Ann made a discovery.In leaning over the stern of the boat to wash out that empty meat tin, in case their little store of water should give out and she should be put to the necessity

of watching that which fell from heaven, her eye had fallen upon something of which she had not previously dreamed.It was the name Atlantic painted upon the boat's stern—a sign which would unfailingly have proven that it belonged to that ill-fated vessel in spite of all that Jemima Ann might do or say.For a few moments the presence of that name troubled the girl, and she sat biting her nails and trying to think what to do; then she arose suddenly, put the empty meat tin on the bottom of the boat, and stamped it underfoot.In a few moments the tin was flattened out, and taking it in her hands,. she leaned over the stern and began scraping at the offending name.The sharp edge of the tin rasped off the paint bit by bit, but not until the last vestige of it had been removed did Jemima Ann give up her task.Even then she searched every other part of the boat to ascertain if the name was repeated anywhere about it, and, finding that it was not, cast the battered tin into the sea and resumed her attentions to her beloved mistress.Long before this time the storm which had wrought so much disaster had passed away, and by nightfall of the second day the sea had subsided.The night that followed saw a great change in the sky, which had so long been black and forbidding, for by nine o'clock the clouds which obscured the horizon had rolled back like a curtain and the moon and stars beamed down on the flowing sea.But still Gypsy raved in delirium, and still Jemima Ann sat beside her, with one arm thrown over the leather valise which had been the innocent cause of so much disaster, and when slumber shut her eyelids down, it was against that that her tired head rested.So, for three days and nights the lifeboat and its

two occupants drifted on at the will of wind and wave, and so Jemima Ann kept her post and scanned the horizon in quest of a sail.But on the morning of the fourth day after the wreck that which she had so long and vainly sought was sent to her. Looking out over the waters she beheld an approaching ship.The weary hours she spent in trying to attract attention from that ship and the mental anguish she endured before her signals were noticed need not be recorded here. Suffice it to say that they were noticed, that the vessel—which proved to be a freight steamer of the Atlantic Transport Line, plying between New York and Tilbury—at once dispatched a boat to the relief of the castaways, and by sunset Jemima Ann was standing before the captain and Jemima Ann's mistress was lying in a comfortable berth amidship."Now, my girl, give me some particulars about yourself and your companion, that I may enter the affair upon the ship's log," said the captain. "Who are you? What is your name? From what port do you hail, and how came you to be out there in an open boat?"Jemima Ann had foreseen all these questions and had thought out her answers beforehand."If you please, sir, my name's Jones—Martha Jones," she said glibly, "and her that's with me is Mrs. Sharkey, the captain's wife. Leastwise she was his wife, for he's at the bottom of the sea now.""The captain, did you say? Captain of what?""The boat he was sailin' in.""What was its name? From what port did it hail?"Now Jemima Ann remembered seeing several large fishing vessels upon the second day out from New York, and remembered, too, the remarks that some of her fellow passengers had made about them, and that knowledge stood her in good stead now."If you please, sir, the boat was named the Sea

Gull," she answered, "and it came from Newfoundland. It was a
fishin' boat, and the captain's name was Sharkey—Captain Hamilton Sharkey, sir"—this to account for the frequent allusions to the name of Hamilton that Gypsy made in her delirium. "You see, he'd only been married a "few days before we sailed, and he didn't like to leave his bride behind him, so he took her along with him and hired me to wait upon her and to be a sort of companion to her, for fear she'd be lonesome. I don't know how it all happened, but four nights ago Mrs. Sharkey and me was awoke by the captain in the midst of a fearful storm. Something had happened to the boat, and we'd got to leave her at once. Captain Sharkey he took his wife and me and put us into a lifeboat, along with the bag containing all Mrs. Sharkey's wedding clothes, and then, just as he was about to get in after me, the rope broke and away we were carried. Two minutes afterward we see the Sea Gull roll right over and go down, and Mrs. Sharkey she fell over in a fit and ain't been herself since. That's all there is to tell, sir, and if you'll only take us where you're going and help me to find some place where we can stay till we can write home to Newfoundland—we ain't got a cent o' money to our names—I'll be ever so much obliged."The story had been told so simply, and it was, withal, such a natural thing, that the captain never thought of doubting it, and after assuring Jemima Ann that he would do all in his power to assist her and her mistress, dismissed the girl and allowed her to fly to Gypsy's side.For three days she remained there trembling lest some chance word
of the sufferer's might give the lie to her story, and hoping against
hope that Gypsy would regain consciousness before they reached port so
that she might tell her what she had done and put her on her
guard. But to her great distress the vessel steamed up the Thames, and in due time dropped

anchor at Tilbury without any abatement of the sufferer's delirium.Jemima Ann was now in a quandary, for she was not only in a strange land, but absolutely without a copper to her name, and added to these distressing circumstances was the knowledge that they could no longer remain aboard the vessel and the torturing fear that Gypsy might be taken from her and conveyed to some institution. But she had found a warm sympathizer in the captain.Ah! when was a sailor's heart ever hardened to the cries of
distress and suffering? And that fact she was soon to realize; for as soon as he had attended to his duties he came to her with a smile upon his kindly face."I've done something for you and your mistress, Martha," he said. "I've reported your rescue to the authorities, but I've said nothing about your mistress' condition, for you seem very fond of her, and they might insist upon separating you and carrying her off to some charity hospital if they knew. So I've got my crew to promise perfect secrecy, and between us we've raised sufficient money to pay for a cab to take you and your mistress to London and establish you in the house of a dear, kind old lady I know there, and who maintains herself by taking lodgers—not lodgers as you understand the term in America, my child, but as it is understood here in England, where you buy your own food and pay the landlady a certain sum of money—a mere trifle, my dear—for the use of her rooms, the cooking and serving of your meals and the attention of her servants."Mrs. Merryweather will only charge you ten shillings per week for all this, and there are twenty shillings in every pound, and as my crew and I have managed to scrape up six pounds between us, why here it is, and make yourself comfortable."No, no; don't thank me!" blushing furiously as

Jemima Ann caught his hand and began to cover it with kisses. "You're a faithful little creature, Martha, and there are not so many of your kind in the world that a man shouldn't go out of his way a bit to help one of them when he meets her. Now, then, stick by your mistress, and as soon as it's dark the cab will arrive. It's all paid for, so you needn't worry about that, and when it does arrive the mate and I will carry Mrs. Sharkey ashore and put her into it. In the meantime, I'll send Mrs. Merryweather a telegram and tell her to expect you, and once there you'll be as right as rain. When your mistress is well and strong again, you can apply to the authorities for assistance to get back again, and you'll be returned free of charge."Then, not waiting to hear the tearful thanks that Jemima Ann showered upon him, he slipped out and vanished.But at nightfall he came again, and brought news that the cab was waiting, and while Jemima Ann shouldered the valise, he and the mate bore the sufferer ashore and conveyed her to the waiting vehicle."Now, then, good-by, Martha, and good luck to you," he said, as Jemima Ann climbed in and took her place beside Gypsy. "You'll have a long ride, and it will be late when you arrive, but Mrs. Merryweather is expecting you, and the cabman knows where to go. Good-by. If I can, I'll spare time to go and see you before I set sail again for New York.""Good-by," said Jemima Ann, leaning out and shaking hands gratefully. "Say, you're the best man that I ever was, I guess, but even if you aren't I'll give the last drop o' blood in my body for you if ever you need me to."Then the hand she held was withdrawn laughingly, the cab door was shut, and in another moment she was speeding away under the murky, dripping English sky.It was late, very late, when the cab finally reached its destination and drew up before a modest little dwelling in that part of London known as Camden Town, but good Mrs. Merryweather was awaiting the arrival of her lodgers, and with the assistance of the cabman lifted out the sufferer and bore her up to the room prepared for her reception.Two bedrooms and a sitting room comprised the suite of apartments that had been reserved for "Mrs, Sharkey" and her maid; but though the carpets were all worn threadbare and the wallpaper was hideous, everything about the place was as neat as wax.Odd as it was to Jemima Ann to see rooms in a great city lighted by candles and supplied with wash bowls and pitchers, instead of running water, she, nevertheless, felt that they could be very comfortable here, and wept tears of joy when she and her beloved mistress were once more alone.She slept that night more peacefully than she had slept any night since they had sailed out of New York, and when morning dawned she awoke refreshed, with the happy consciousness that she need dread no longer the falling of any telltale word from the sufferer's lips.Under good Mrs. Merryweather's tutelage she soon mastered the mysteries of English money and learned where to shop in order to get the best value for it.Still she was very frugal in all her expenditures, for she realized the necessity of husbanding every penny, not knowing where more was to come from when her little store of money should be gone.So the days slipped by, and she lived her life of self-sacrifice under Mrs. Merryweather's roof, and here one morning the end of her long waiting came and Gypsy opened her eyes to consciousness again.CHAPTER XVIII.
THE SECRET OF THE VALISE.Jemima Ann must have been stark mad for several minutes after that awakening came, for she capered about the room like an Indian, she rushed to Gypsy and hugged her, she flew to the window and flung it up and leaned out and shouted vociferously, "Hooray!" to all the world—an "Hooray!" that startled a costermonger's donkey and set him careering up the street, with his neck stretched out, his ears laid back, and scattering vegetables at every jolt of the cart he was dragging after him; then she rushed back to Gypsy again, and, falling on her knees, buried her face in the bedclothes and laughed and cried and prayed, all in one excited breath.It was the touch of Gypsy's thin white hand upon her head, the sound of Gypsy's feeble voice in her ears that recalled her to herself and made her a rational being once more."It is Jemima Ann, isn't it?" said Gypsy faintly, as she tried to see the girl's hidden face. "Yes, yes, I see it is now," smiling plaintively as Jemima Ann looked sharply up with a countenance glorified. "How good of you to be so faithful. But tell me, dear, where am I? I do not know this place; I never saw it before. How did I come here, Jemima Ann? I think" —with a sudden tightening of the lips and a sudden expanding of her sunken, lusterless eyes—"I think I was in a lifeboat, at sea, adrift, with nothing but foaming waves about me when last I saw your face.""Oh, Mrs. Smith; you remember that? You haven't forgotten it?""I shall never forget it," responded Gypsy, a faint shudder traversing her frame and a look of exquisite pain passing over her pale, wasted countenance. "The

memory of it has never ceased to haunt me. It has been with me through every hour, through every minute, and it will be with me to the day I die. I cannot forget what has happened! and I cannot forget it, ever!""You know all, then?""I know that he is dead—Hamilton, my husband the one precious thing I ever owned," she answered huskily. "It would have been a mercy if I could have forgotten it, even for a moment, but God would not let me do it. I have survived, and it is my retribution to remember. He was drowned—my darling was drowned before my very eyes, and I shall see his dead face looking up at me—ever—ever!"She put her hands over her eyes, as if to shut the vision out, and for several moments there was silence; for Jemima Ann had bowed her head again and was silently praying."It is you who have saved me," said Gypsy, lowering her hands and breaking the stillness again. "It would have been better to have let me die—to have flung me from the boat and let the waves sink me down to death and him—but it is too late now, too late now. What am I to do with my life now that you have saved it, Jemima Ann? What place have I in the world? Where shall I go? What shall I do? and— Hush! hush! I am not reproaching you, dear. What you have done you did out of love for me. I know that, dear, and—and we will say no more about it. It is you who have brought me here. Now tell me where I am.""You are in London; Mrs. Smith.""In London? In his country? Oh, tell me, tell me
how I came here, and by what miracle I wake to find
myself in an English house after awful days at sea."Thus admonished, Jemima Ann told her, told her
of the dreadful knowledge that had come out of her
frantic words; told her of the resolve she had made,

to screen her from her father's wrath; told her of their rescue; of the falsehood she had invented to cover up the truth; of the name she had herself adopted and of the name she had given her; told her of the captain's goodness, and last of all, how by his aid they had come here and been received by Mrs. Merryweather.For a long time Gypsy lay there and stared up at the ceiling after Jemima Ann had finished speaking; then she suddenly lowered her eyes to the girl's face and took both her hands in hers."It was good of you to do that, Jemima Ann," she huskily said. "I have been the cause of enough evil already, and it was good of you to help me in keeping my father from staining his hands with the blood of his child.""He would really kill you, then, if he found you out?""Yes, he would really kill me, Jemima Ann, for you shall know the truth at last. My husband's real name was Hamilton Spread, dear, and my father holds Hamilton Spread as his bitterest and most detested foe."And with this brief preface she told Jemima Ann all; told her of her lonely, loveless life with Mrs. Detheredge; of her meeting with the man she had subsequently married; of her father's return and the awful revelation he had made that night in the summerhouse by the sea, and last, but not least, of her flight with the man she loved, and into whose hands she had given the keeping of her life."My! it's more romantic than a novel!" said Jemima Ann. "But," she added disconsolately in the next breath, "novels don't end as this has ended—in sorrow and sadness and tears.""Yes; 'in sorrow and sadness and tears,' Jemima Ann," responded Gypsy brokenly. "Sorrow and sadness and tears, and now it is ended; ended!"Then she turned her face to the wall, and Jemima Ann stole softly away, for she could see that her eyes were closed and her lips moving, and she knew what that meant.In spite of her prayers that death would stoop and take her, in spite of the fact that life and the world seemed empty and desolate, Gypsy's health steadily improved, her strength steadily came back to her, and in a week's time she was able to rise from her bed and sit in the soft-cushioned seat which Jemima Ann had placed beside the window so that she could watch the people passing to and fro and inhale the fragrance of Mrs. Merryweather's pots of English wallflowers and the scent of a pennyworth of mignonette that Jemima Ann had purchased and kept fresh in a glass of water upon the window sill.For three successive mornings that pennyworth of mignonette stood there waiting to be noticed before it turned yellow and had to be thrown away; for three successive mornings Mrs. Merryweather peeped in with a big bunch of flowers in her hand."Good morning, my dear," she said, beaming upon Jemima Ann with a smile of motherly greeting. "Good morning to you, too, Mrs. Sharkey. Dearie me, but it does do a body's heart good to see you improving so rapidly. Don't think I've come to intrude on you, though, or to worry you with my chattering, for I haven't; I've only come to bring you this bunch of flowers from Miss St. Quentin.""Miss St. Quentin?" repeated Gypsy, glancing up; "I don't think I know who Miss St. Quentin is.""Of course you don't, my dear, never having met her," responded Mrs. Merryweather. "But she's my drawing-room lodger—professional lady. Her real name is Sarah Boggs, between you and me. But you know what them play-actin' folks is—ready to give away their heads when they hear of folks that's in trouble. Well, I just happened to mention about you

being ill, my dear, and Miss St. Quentin—which she never knew before that you was in the house—picks out the finest bouquet out of all that was given her at the theater last night, and tells me to fetch it up to you, and here it is."Law! they are a generous lot, them play-actin' folks, for all they do sleep so late and keep a body on thorns about gettin' the room done up. Lovely day, isn't it? Good morning."Then out she popped again and was gone. But the gift of the bouquet had set Gypsy's mind traveling a road she had never thought of before.Miss St. Quentin, being an actress, worked for her living. One couldn't live in idleness, one must do something to earn one's bread, and so—"Jemima Ann, I shall have to do something presently," said Gypsy suddenly. "I never thought of it before, but—but our money must be almost gone, and we cannot live in idleness.""Never you mind about that, Miss Gypsy. We ain't drove to it yet, although I've been thinkin' for some time about goin' out and tryin' to get somethin' to do. But even if our money does give out and I don't get work right straight off, we can get a bit from the pawnshops, you know. Of course we ain't got anything of our very own to pawn, but—but—I hate to say it—but there must be something valuable in this here valise, for Mr. Smith—I should say Mr. Spread—he always dressed well, and I reckon there must be lots of good clothes in it, and good clothes will pawn easily any day.""Hamilton's valise!" exclaimed Gypsy, recognizing it with a thrill of pain as Jemima Ann held it up. It was the first time she had noticed its presence in the room—the first time she had thought of it since the day of the wreck. "Hamilton's valise, and you have it yet?""Yes. Why not? He told me not to be separated from it, and I never have."Without a word Gypsy arose from her seat and walked over to the place where Jemima Ann had set the valise down."It was his; oh, it was his," she said, her eyes brimming with tears. Then she knelt down and opened it and softly drew out the things it contained."Why, how strange," she said suddenly, as her eyes fell upon something she had never noticed before. "I know that my husband sent word to the hotel at Newport to have this valise and its contents sent to Providence, but surely there must have been some mistake, and surely they sent him the wrong valise, for all the silver tops to the bottles of this one are engraved with a crest and monogrammed 'P. D.'""Goodness! so they are! But he must have seen that, and if it had been the wrong one he'd have known it, Miss Gypsy.""Yes, certainly—at least, I should think so. Beyond a doubt these are his clothes, for I remember this light suit perfectly, and— Oh, look! look!"— with a startled cry. "'P. D.' does not stand for Hamilton Spread, and yet 'P. D.' is embroidered upon the lining of this coat. And see! see"—tumbling out a mass of linen—"the same initial is upon his shirts, upon his handkerchiefs, and above the letters there is embroidered a coronet.""A coronet? What's that?""A sign—a symbol of nobility!" exclaimed Gypsy excitedly. "Merciful Heaven, what am I thinking? What mad thoughts are these that are whirling through my brain? What's here in this pocket? Letters—papers—a check book, and—"She stopped suddenly, for her eye had fallen upon something, and at sight of it every vestige of color vanished from her face and left it white as snow.CHAPTER XIX.
TRUTH COMES OUT.The article Gypsy had drawn from the inner pocket of the valise and which had caused her to grow so suddenly and so deathly pale, was a letter inclosed in a faded envelope and addressed in ink which time had rendered faint and pale.But it was still plain enough for her to distinguish every word, and at the sight of those words she involuntarily uttered a little cry, part of wonder and part of incredulity."What's the matter?" exclaimed Jemima Ann, attracted by her cry and fixing upon her a pair of startled eyes. "My, but you're gone as white as a sheet, Miss Gypsy, and you're shaking from head to foot. What's upset you? What is it?""I—I don't know," responded Gypsy, in a gasping voice. "My head has gone wrong, I think, for everything is whirling, whirling, and my heartbeats seem to choke me. Ah! what am I thinking? What madness is preying on my brain that I should think such hideous things of him?""Mercy on us, Miss Gypsy, why, what in the world are—""This letter, this letter," broke in Gypsy, holding it up. "Do you see what is written upon it? Do you see to whom it is addressed? Read! Read! 'To the Right Honorable Marquis of Desmond, care of Junior Constitutional Club, Piccadilly.'""Land sakes, why, so it is. But dear me, Miss Gypsy, what's there in that to make you turn so white and holler out so?""What was my husband—Hamilton Spread—doing with a letter in his portmanteau addressed to the Mar-

quis of Desmond?" responded Gypsy excitedly. "What was he doing with his clothing, his linen, the very bottles of his dressing bag marked 'P. D.,' when his initials were 'H. S.,' and, at least, one of those letters—the initial 'D.' stands for the name of the man to whom this letter was addressed?"Even Jemima Ann could not fail to see her drift now, and she gave a little jump and cry of surprise."Goodness gracious, it do look suspicious like, don't it?" she gasped, in dismay, but the next instant her whole face lighted up and she thrilled from head to foot with a rapture unspeakable. "Oh, my! do you, do you think that Mr. Spread could 'a' been a duke or a prince or something in disguise?" she added breathlessly. "Oh, Miss Gypsy, if it could be	if it only could be—why you'd be a she duke, or a she prince on account o' bein' married to him, and maybe you'd have an 'ancestral castle' with a ditch all round it, and a drawbridge to go over like the baron's daughter I read about in the novel at Miss Jerusha's."But," she added in the next breath, her spirits going down to zero as rapidly as they had risen, "maybe he only borrowed the valise from some one when he went over to America, and maybe the letter was in it all the time. Oh, open it, Miss Gypsy, open it, and see if it's really for him or if it's only the address o' some one he was ordered to paint a picture for, like you said he sometimes did."Both suggestions were, in a way, plausible—both she and Jemima Ann had forgotten for the moment the marks upon the clothing—that Gypsy felt the tightness at her heart relax suddenly, and full of hope, nervously drew forth the sheet of paper contained in the envelope, and, smoothing it out, glared over the brief message it contained.But if either she or Jemima Ann hoped to find any solution to the enigma there they were decidedly baf-

fled; for the letter—bearing date of four years previously—contained only these words:"MY LORD:I hasten to tell you that your wishes have been carried out. A close guard has been put upon Firefly's stable and trainers, and if the ugly rumors Baltis says he overheard about the possibility of the horse being tampered with before the race day have any foundation, the thing will result in failure now. I am morally certain that Firefly will win the Derby, my lord, for there isn't his match in the kingdom, and I'm so sure of him that I shall back him for every penny I possess. Bless your lordship. I know that you couldn't have a present that would please you better than for Firefly to carry off the Derby cup, and he's going to win it for you, if I can make him do it."Obediently your lordship's servant and jockey,
"JEM REDGES."Slipping the faded letter back into its envelope, Gypsy looked blankly at Jemima Ann."There is no clew in that," she said, in a wavering, husky voice. "The paper might be blank for all the light it sheds upon the mystery.""Mystery!" repeated Jemima Ann, with a little ecstatic thrill. "Oh, Miss Gypsy, do you think there is a mystery? Do you really and truly think that Mr. Spread wasn't just the kind of man you thought he was?""I hope not," responded Gypsy huskily, "for I thought him the best, the truest, the noblest of men, and I would not find him other than that, even to recall him from the dead. Am I going mad, I wonder, that, I can think—even for a moment think, that the man I loved was at heart a scoundrel and a villain?""A scoundrel and a villain?" repeated Jemima Ann, with a gasp and a look of mild reproach. "Oh, Miss Gypsy, how can you say such a thing? No, Mr.

Spread wasn't a villain—he didn't even look like one, for he had light hair and blue eyes, and the villains in all the books I ever read had 'raven locks and eyes as black as sloes!' No! no! Mr. Spread wasn't bad—he was good—just as good and kind and gentle and nice as could be, and he loved you—loved you true—I know he did. And, besides, how would it make him a villain, even if he did turn out to be somebody different from what you thought he was?""Because it is only a villain who would tempt a girl to run away from her people to become his wife and then marry her under an assumed name," returned Gypsy vehemently. "Oh, Jemima Ann, can't you understand? There could be no reason, save a wicked one, for such an act as that; for when a man truly loves a woman he is proud to give her his name—he glories in giving her his name—he does not seek to hide it from her—from all the world—as though their marriage were some guilty thing that he would not for worlds have people who know him discover."And, besides," waxing yet more excited as she went on and dark thoughts undreamed of before came teeming into her mind, "besides, English noblemen do not woo and wed girls in the position I was in when Hamilton Spread wooed and won me. English noblemen do not bestow their hands upon American seamstresses, and if they marry them under assumed names, it can only be to do them the bitterest of wrongs, to deceive them, perhaps by a marriage which after all is no real marriage at all, and then, when they have tired of them, to cast them adrift and defy them to find legal redress for their terrible wrongs."Ah, Heaven! have pity upon me—have pity and save me from madness—for the more I think of this thing the more horrible the doubt becomes. How do I know that that marriage was legal? How do I know that it really was a clergyman who performed the ceremony? How do I know that I ever was, even for

one minute, a lawful wife and legally entitled to bear any man's name?""Why, you've got your certificate, ain't you, Miss Gypsy? That'll prove the marriage fast enough, and surely there was one, wasn't there?—a certificate, I mean.""Yes, there was one, but where is it now? It was never for one moment in my possession. My husband took it and thrust it into his pocket when we walked out of the church, and I—oh, I trusted him so much that not even a shadow of doubt ever for an instant crossed my mind. He kept the certificate on his person—for only the day of that dreadful wreck he told me it was still next his heart—he kept it, and—and it was with him at the time he met his death—it went with him to the bottom of the sea, and it is lying there now."Jemima Ann's face grew a shade paler at this, and a slight ridge gathered between her sandy brows."You'd oughter had it—you'd oughter kept it," she said dolefully. "It do look bad, his takin' the certificate hisself, and hidin' it away, like as there was something about it he didn't want you to see, and—and I must say that I don't like it. In all the books I ever read the gent always handed the weddin' certificate over to the lady the first thing, and said something nice to her, about it's bein' 'the seal of the pledge o' their eternal love,' or something o' that sort, and—and I don't like Mr. Spread's not doin' that—pertickler now that them 'P. D.'s' and that there strange letter has turned up."But," she added hopefully, in the very next breath, her face clearing and the ridge disappearing from between her brows, "but it seems to me, Miss Gypsy, that we're sorter unjust to the dead—sorter leapin' to conclusions too quick like and judgin' Mr. Spread guilty before we've took the trouble to find out if he isn't innocent, and that there ain't fair play noways you put

it. Folks is innocent until you proves them guilty, I reckon, and so—go through all the letters and papers in the valise, Miss Gypsy, go through all of 'em, and then let's do our judgin' arterward."There was so much reason, so much justice, in this suggestion, that even Gypsy could not refrain from coloring guiltily, and, despite the fact that to her the marking of all her husband's effects with a coronet and the initials of a name unlike the name she had known him under—despite the fact that these things had a more serious look in her eyes than in those of Jemima Ann, there was still a faint hope in her heart that she had wronged the dead, and, with nervous haste, she fell to tossing out the contents of the valise and eagerly searching them in quest of the desired truth.But for a long time that quest was fruitless. A dozen hotel bills made out to "Mr. Hamilton Spread," a few dance cards, a scented note or two of invitation, signed Ada Detheredge, a little knot of violets—faded, scentless, pressed flat—which Gypsy recollected his picking up one night when they fell from her bosom as they strolled together on the sands of Newport; countless articles of linen marked "P. D.,' countless handkerchiefs embroidered with a coronet; stacks of partly soiled kid gloves and dozens of pairs that had never been worn and never even removed from their tissue-paper wrappings; neckties of every shade and shape; three or four suits of clothes, lined with silk; numberless pairs of silk socks, numberless studs and scarfpins, and more sets of silver-backed brushes and silver-mounted combs and expensive toilet articles than seemed necessary for any one man to possess—these were all the contents, and among the lot there was not one thing calculated to shed the faintest light upon the mystery of the owner's identity.Stay! there was one thing, but it had seemed of so little value that Gypsy had thrown it aside without

stopping to examine it, and but for Jemima Ann it might never have been investigated.It was only a sheet of newspaper—a single sheet, folded until it was not much larger than a man's hand and pressed quite flat from the length of time it had been lying in the pocket of the portmanteau.It was one single sheet of the Illustrated London News, and it was possibly the sight of pictures upon it that impelled Jemima Ann to unfold and spread it out. An instant later, she gave a sudden screech and almost jumped out of her boots.For the paper before her contained not only the account but the pictures of a famous race, together with a portrait of the winning horse, another of its jockey, and still another of its fortunate owner."Look at that—look at that!" panted Jemima Ann, scrambling over the pile of clothing upon the floor and fairly thrusting the paper into Gypsy's face. "You need search no more—it's him, and we've found it all out. Read what it says. Firefly winning the Derby, and, look there! there! 'Portrait of Lord Philip Desmond, from a photograph by Walery.'"Gypsy snatched the paper and looked at it—looked at it, and sank back, white with the anguish of a breaking heart.The room seemed to be spinning round; an iron hand seemed to grip her heart and wring it to its very core; for there, looking up at her from the printed sheet, feature for feature, and line for line, was the face of the man who had gone down with the wreck of the Atlantic.CHAPTER XX.
TAKING THE BULL BY THE HORNS.She did not faint, did not cry out, did not make even the smallest sound. It was as though all the life had been suddenly smitten out of her, and she sat there and stared at that picture so long that Jemima Ann grew frightened."Miss Gypsy, why don't you move? Why don't you say something?" she said, in a husky, terrified little voice, as she reached out and touched her. "Miss Gypsy, Miss Gypsy! Oh, don't you hear me? Please speak—please do something. It frightens me to see you sitting here so still and white. You look worse than when he was drowned—a thousand times worse.As she spoke, a shiver traversed Gypsy's frame, the paper slipped from her hands and fluttered to the floor, and, turning slowly, she fixed her large, dark eyes upon Jemima Ann, with that look of bewildered pain one sees in the eyes of a wounded deer."And I feel worse than I felt then!" she said, in a strange, hollow voice—a voice that made Jemima Ann's very flesh creep."What is the loss of one we love to such a loss as this? It was only the man I worshiped that perished then, now everything is gone from me—heart, spirit, honor, name. Yesterday I could have wept over his memory; yesterday the very sea was dear to me because it held him, and, oh, why could it not have been 'yesterday' always?"Miss Gypsy!""Yesterday I was an honorable woman," went on Gypsy, not noticing the interruption. "Yesterday I was the widow of a man whose memory was dearer to me than all the riches of the universe, but to-day

what am I? A disgraced woman—a wretched creature without a place in the world, and what I am the man I love has made me. I was his dupe, not his wife, and this, this is how he rewarded me for breaking my father's heart. The name he gave me was not his name, the home he wished me to share with him was not his home, for an end like this he led me to believe in him."Oh, why did I not die before I learned of this? Why did I not go down to my death in the sea ere this horror came into my life. Ruined, abandoned—cast out upon the world without a hope or a friend, and all through him—all through the man I love!"As she ceased speaking, her upraised hand fell, her upright figure collapsed suddenly and dropped, a dead weight, into the nearest chair, and, as tears came to her relief and sobs shook her bowed form:"Bravo! bravo! bravo!" sounded a voice from the opposite end of the room, accompanied by a vigorous clapping of hands.Gypsy and Jemima Ann turned toward the door, and beheld a beautiful lady, who again smiled and bowed her applause before she came into the room."Good morning, my dear," said she, "I congratulate you! You'll be a success, I know. Old stager as I am, I give you my word you nearly made me weep, the way you rehearsed those lines! What play are they in? Where do you appear, and when? I haven't heard of any American actress who's billed to appear in London soon, and Mrs. Merryweather says you're an American—"Gypsy had risen to receive her visitor, but surprise and the lady's volubility, combined, seemed to have deprived her of speech."Yes, I am," she began timidly. "But I don't know what you mean by—""Oh, you must excuse my informality, dropping in on you this way. Naturally, you prefer to know my

name, before you give me yours. And quite right, too, seeing I've called upon you. But I thought Mrs. Merryweather told you my name, when she brought up the bouquet.""Oh, then it was you who sent it? Thank you so much, Miss St. Quentin. You were very kind—Not at all, my dear, not at all. I've just called in to say how do you do? And to ask if I can be of any help. Mrs. Merryweather led me to believe that you were very ill, but she never told me you were a sister professional. Fancy, you lying ill so long, and I never coming to see you! Upon my word, I never knew a word about it until this morning. Is there anything I can do for you?""Oh, no, thank you," replied Gypsy."Well, do tell me something about yourself, my dear. When did you arrive in London? Who is your manager? When and where do you appear? My! won't Stella Armitage turn green when you take the field! You've heard of her?""Indeed, no; never until this minute.""You don't mean it! Well, she's the reigning emotional actress of London at present, and she's a perfect tyrant. She quarrels with everybody—manager, company, author, anything that doesn't suit her—and just now she is threatening to ruin a play that was written for her by a—a dear friend of mine, named Rawley, and to give up a perfectly magnificent part, all because she insists on some ruinous changes which he refuses to make."You see," Miss St. Quentin went on, "poor Cis can't give in to her this time, as it happens, and if he doesn't, Stella won't play, and the piece will be ruined; for there's not another actress on the boards who can do justice to the part. At least, not yet! Ah, if you were only disengaged, what an opportunity it would be for you!""For me!" Gypsy betrayed her surprise and be-

wilderment, but Miss St. Quentin was too enthusiastic to notice."Yes, for you," she returned, "The chance of a lifetime! But, there! I dare say you've made all your arrangements, long ago. So won't you tell me when and where you are going to make your debut?""I do not make my debut at all, Miss St. Quentin," replied Gypsy, trying to understand what Jemima Ann could possibly mean by the excited pantomime she was executing behind their visitor's chair, and the strange manner in which she was winking and nodding. "You seem to be under some delusion. I've no engagement, and I'm not an actress.""Not an actress!" exclaimed Miss St. Quentin, in amazement. "After what I overheard when I came upstairs, you tell me you're not an actress !"Gypsy shook her head, but Jemima Ann saved the situation. "No, ma'am," said she; "you see, the manager that sent her over here went to smash before we got here, and—and she says she isn't an actress, because she never had the chance. But you can bet she would be one, and a first-class one, and she could earn barrels o' money, if she tried."Now, at last, Gypsy understood the meaning of that elaborate pantomime; and, realizing at the same time that money could be made by acting, she said never a word to discredit Jemima's daring assertion. She even began to feel a bashful curiosity anent the opportunity which had been suggested to her. Could she really become an actress? Was it absurd to hope, to dream, of such a thing as actually playing a part in Mr. Rawley's play?"I haven't the slightest doubt," said Miss St. Quentin, turning from Jemima to her silent mistress, as if answering her unspoken question. "After that fine outburst I overheard, I can hardly believe you're only an amateur; anyway, I'm convinced you've great tal-

ent! Yes, I tell you you're a born actress, and I ought to know!""Oh, Miss St. Quentin!""I mean it. Now, listen to me. Since you're not engaged by any manager, what do you say to going with me, right now, and seeing Mr. Rawley, and asking him if he would let you play the heroine in his 'Princess Mirza'? I know he would be only too glad of an excuse to get rid of Stella Armitage, if an efficient rival could be found, and you—""Oh, but I don't know anything about—""Perhaps not. But you have a natural gift, which is next best to experience. And you can learn; there are three weeks left for rehearsals, before the theater opens. Come, what do you say?"As if carried off her feet by the abruptness of the proposal, Gypsy was too dazed, too tempted, to decline it. Moreover, the opportunity seemed Heaven-sent, at a time of sore need. In fact, this new friend could not have chosen a more opportune moment to come to the rescue."If you think I can really do this, help me to become an actress," Gypsy said, turning to her new friend. "Tell me what to do, show me where to turn, and I will bless you all the days of my life.""And so will Cis Rawley, I'll bet!" exclaimed Miss St. Quentin. "As for me, I'm delighted at the prospect of saving his glorious play, and, incidentally, snatching away some of Stella's laurels! Let's go at once to the theater, where poor Cis is worried to death over possible disaster. He will hear you read a scene or two of his play, and, after that—well, let him decide whether you can play Princess Mirza! You're lovely enough, in all conscience, my dear, even if you were a mere amateur, a barnstormer; but with your talent— Put on your wraps at once, and let's be off."CHAPTER XXI.
A NEW CAREER.When they returned from the theater, late that afternoon, Miss St. Quentin was radiant, and Gypsy, equally happy, was still too dazed by the unexpected success of their venture to believe it wholly true. It had all been like a dream to her, and she could not help wondering, at odd moments, whether a rude awakening would not follow.Mr. Rawley had been very courteous, very kind, in receiving her and listening to Miss St. Quentin's startling suggestion. He knew that if anybody in the world wished for his success and would do anything to further it, it was Gabrielle St. Quentin, the woman who loved him, who was to be his wife. Moreover, he was used to her impulsive ways, and he had great faith in her quick, intuitive judgments. So he was not greatly surprised at her making a protégeée of Gypsy, and he gladly gave Gypsy an audience.At the end of their conference, during which Gypsy was allowed to read three entire scenes of the play, his verdict was highly favorable. Gypsy read the part with such intelligence, such intensity of feeling and expression, that her hearers were delighted. It was forthwith decided that she should begin studying it at once, preparatory to rehearsing it later; and, with that understanding, Rawley departed, to announce to Miss Armitage that her threatened resignation would be accepted.Miss Armitage had promptly canceled her engagement, vowing never to have anything to do with Rawley or his works in future.And so, borne onward on a sudden wave of hope, Gypsy's new life began. She assumed the stage name

of Sylvia Montressor, and also the arduous tasks which are the lot of every theatrical star, great or small. Daily, for three weeks after that memorable afternoon, and often all day long, she attended rehearsals with the company, and evening after evening she studied, with Miss St. Quentin and Mr. Rawley as coach and critic. As each succeeding day served to put her more at her ease, her success became assured as the night of her debut drew near.At last it came, that great and unforgettable event! How she went through the ordeal, Gypsy never knew; but, somehow, without a hitch, without a blunder, the first act ran on to its climax, and the curtain fell, to a burst of applause that gladdened the hearts of author and actress alike. And so, to the final falling of the curtain.The so-called Sylvia Montressor woke next morning, to find herself famous.In the weeks that followed, her fame grew; everywhere she was spoken of as the most gifted actress and the most beautiful woman in London, Lords and ladies, gentlemen of birth and fortune, sought and obtained the privilege of being introduced to her, and she was showered with social invitations, all of which she managed very gracefully to decline.Nor were offers of marriage lacking; but these Gypsy declined, also, even more emphatically, to the surprise of Miss St. Quentin, who had not yet been taken wholly into Gypsy's confidence regarding her sad story.Another thing that puzzled both Miss St. Quentin and Rawley, was Gypsy's unaccountable behavior toward Matthew, Marquis of Desmond, who had been presented to her, one evening after the play. Why, among all other admirers, did Gypsy choose to be particularly gracious to this one, whom neither of them liked in the least?"I'm happy to meet you, my lord?" said Miss St.

Quentin, when she was introduced to his lordship. "Yours is a name associated with my earliest memories.""Indeed! How?""Oh, when I was a little girl I went on a visit to a cousin of my mother's who was a tenant of the Marquis of Desmond's. His lordship's estate was, if I remember correctly, called Thetford Castle?""Quite correct. That is the name of my estate.""But, dear me! You can't possibly be that Marquis of Desmond, for he was a very old man.""Ah, you allude to the old marquis, my late uncle.""Oh, then you are a member of the same family? But how odd that you should succeed to the title.""Why odd, Miss St. Quentin?""Because, if I remember correctly, the old marquis had a son—a son of whom my mother's cousin—I called her 'aunt' by courtesy—was passionately fond, because, you see, she was foster mother to him in his infancy—but, of course, if that son is dead, that would account for it.""He is dead, Miss St. Quentin, and that does account for it. I am his Cousin Matthew, and, being the next of kin, succeeded to the title in the absence of any nearer kin.""Then, perhaps, you can tell me what became of my Aunt Polly and Uncle Job, and their two children?" said Miss St. Quentin eagerly. "They went away somewhere, some years ago, your lordship, and I have never been able to find a trace of them since. Ned and Maggie Twyford were the names of their two children."Lord Desmond gave a faint, almost imperceptible, start at this, and then shook his head."No," he said. "I can tell you nothing of them. In fact, I never heard the name before.""He's a-lyin'," whispered Jemima Ann to Gypsy. "I can tell by the way he acts that he's lyin', and he's

got some reason for pretendin' not to know them folks Miss St. Quentin axed him about. He's a bad lot, that 'Johnny,' Miss Gypsy, but if he's anything to do with our 'Lord Desmond' you must play him and find it all out."I will," said Gypsy, under her breath. "Who knows but what his fancy for me may be a direct interposition of Providence in my behalf, and that I may be on the track of the truth at last?"CHAPTER XXII.
ON THE TRAIL.As time passed, the marquis became more and more devoted in his attentions; and finally it came to pass that, in spite of her friends' remonstrances, Gypsy actually accepted an invitation from the marquis to spend her holidays, after the theatrical season, at a villa on his estate, close to Thetford Castle. Thither she went with her faithful Jemima; and she lost no time in undertaking to learn whether she was indeed Lord Philip Desmond's lawful wife, or whether a former marriage of his had rendered her title null and void, in case the supposed wife were living.Pretending to be the dearest friend of Philip Desmond's American wife, and to believe that he was dead, she sought repeatedly to draw from the marquis an admission of the facts. The most she could learn, however, was a pack of lies; for my lord informed her that the Philip Desmond she mentioned was no relation to the Desmonds, of Thetford Castle, and that her friend was not his only victim, as he had a wife long before he married Gypsy. He admitted that if Philip's "first wife" were now dead, the marriage with Gypsy would be legal; and he promised to employ every means of discovering whether the "first wife" were still alive.Grateful for this seeming interest in her behalf, and deceived as to Lord Matthew's secret motives, Gypsy promised to write to her "dearest friend," asking her to send the marquis every record of her marriage that she could obtain. She was pondering how she could do this, one morning, when she received an unexpected visitor, the marquis' French valet, Henry Du Bois.She recognized him as soon as he appeared, al-

though he was now pale with agitation, and no longer spoke in broken English."Pardon me, Miss Montressor," he began, "for coming thus suddenly upon you. I come to confess to you that I overheard your last conversation with my Lord Desmond, and to warn you to do nothing that he suggested. He has lied to you, Miss Montressor, and he is your enemy. Oh, if you are, as I have guessed, Lord Philip Desmond's wife, hear me, and believe me! I am, like you, a woman who has suffered and been wronged—""A woman?" gasped Gypsy."Yes," the valet answered, with a stifled sob. "Oh, I will tell you later the reason for this disguise; but now only listen to me. I swear to you, Lord Philip Desmond was a true and honorable gentleman. He had no wife save the one he married in America, and if you are she—""I am," Gypsy murmured. "As Heaven hears me, I swear to you I am!""Then you are the lawful Marchioness of Desmond, and you stand upon your own domain!"The valet then went on to urge Gypsy to procure proofs or witnesses of her marriage, but this poor Gypsy was utterly unable to do."All who know of Matthew Sleaford's succession to the title and estates of his cousin, know also the story of that cousin's American marriage," declared the valet, "for the papers were full of it at the time he and his bride were reported drowned at sea.""The papers?" repeated Gypsy feebly. "Oh, how could the papers report that, when even I did not suspect the identity of the man I married?""They reported that, also, for a letter written by Lord Philip to his cousin was published in the public prints, after the wreck of the Atlantic. I can show you a copy of that letter. I can show you a portrait of Lord Philip Desmond which now hangs in the

gallery of the castle. Will you come with me now to see it?""Gladly!" responded Gypsy. And together they hastened to the castle, swearing never to betray each other's secrets.The valet led Gypsy to the picture gallery, but while they were gazing upon the portrait, a sound of footsteps was heard in the corridor, and they had barely time to conceal themselves in a curtained alcove before the marquis and Ned Twyford, his steward entered.The two men proceeded to cut out Philip Desmond's portrait from its frame, and to substitute one of Matthew Sleaford, the usurping marquis. That done, the latter retired, taking the portrait which he intended to destroy; and Twyford soon after departed."That man," whispered the valet, as they cautiously made their way out of doors, "is my brother. My real name is Maggie Twyford, and already he suspects who I am. The time has not yet come for me to reveal my identity to him, although I almost did so yesterday, when I talked with him."CHAPTER XXIII.
CAUGHT IN THE ACT.That night, the marquis retired to the library of the castle, a huge room lighted by large French windows that opened directly upon a terrace.It was a warm summer night, and the central window stood open, admitting a flood of moonlight into the apartment.My lord waited until every one in the house had gone to bed, then, taking a pile of papers and a roll of painted canvas front a closet, he proceeded to build a fire, into which he thrust the canvas. Stooping over the flames that were speedily devouring his cousin's portrait, his gaze was fixed on the fireplace, so that he did not see a tall, slender figure cross the terrace in the moonlight and approach the window.He looked up suddenly, only when the sound of a human voice broke the stillness of night."Matthew, my dear cousin, is it you?"With a throttled cry, he staggered back, clutching the mantelpiece, and staring like a dead man. For there, in the open window, with the firelight shining upon him, a mere ghost of his former self, stood Philip Desmond.After strained and wondering greetings on both sides, Philip related the story of his miraculous deliverance from death at sea, by a Portuguese cruiser, after drifting on the wreckage for days, without food or water; of his long illness in Lisbon and delay in reaching home."You sent no letters from Lisbon?" asked Sleaford."No; the terrible shock and subsequent illness seemed temporarily to effect my mind. For weeks I

was as if in delirium, only quiet, forgetful who or where I was. Thank Heaven, I am all right now, fully restored, although I am not yet as strong as I was. Oh, I'm so glad to be home! Only—"He broke off, trying to find courage to ask the question that was foremost in his mind. Then suddenly, as though driven to desperation, he caught his breath and started to his feet."Why don't you tell me what I'm dying to learn?" he cried out. "Matthew, tell me! Is my wife, is Gypsy, living? Is she here? Speak, man! Was she saved?""Have you seen no one since you came to England? Met no one on your way here?" Sleaford asked evasively, yet eagerly."No one. But what has that to do with my wife? Tell me where she is, if she is alive!""I—I—don't know.""Don't know! Why, in Heaven's name, don't you know? Have you made no inquiry? Have you not sought her? You must have read accounts of the wreck, you must know she was in the boat; why did you never learn what became of it?""They—they said it was lost," stammered Sleaford. "The man—the quartermaster who was saved—said that the boat was overturned and—and she must have been drowned—she and her maid together.""And you were satisfied with that—you made no further inquiries after that?" cried out Lord Desmond, in horror."Why, no, Philip—that is, everybody said she must be lost, and so—""Everybody said that I was lost, and yet I still live," struck in Lord Desmond hoarsely. "And you have made no further effort to prove or disprove the story, while she—merciful Heaven! what may not she be enduring, when I have endured so much? Proof! proof! Living or dead, I must have proof!

Not a day, not an hour must be lost before the search is begun. Ring up the house—send a messenger to the telegraph station at once—at once.""To the telegraph station? For what?""To wire a dispatch to London," answered Lord Desmond wildly. "To engage detectives to scour the land for her, to secure a vessel with which to scour the seas. Give me a light—give me pens and paper, that I may write the telegram at once—at once! Are you a stick or a stone, that you stand there and stare at me in such a moment as this? A messenger, a messenger, at once!""Philip, you are mad. The telegraph station is closed at this hour, and the operator is home and abed.""Then he must be dragged out of it! Ring for a messenger. I tell you, or if you will not—"He made a movement toward the bell rope as he spoke, but, quick as a flash, Sleaford's arm flew out and barred the way."Philip, you must not—you shall not!" he cried hoarsely. "Stand where you are and listen to reason. You must not arouse the house.""Shall not! Who dares to say that I shall not?"For one second Sleaford was silent; his white face gleaming like ivory in the glare of the moonlight, his eyes shining, his body bent slightly forward, his lips tightly shut and no sound coming from them."Do you hear me?" reiterated Lord Desmond. "Who dares to say that I shall not arouse the house?"With a quick movement, Sleaford turned, and catching up the tassel of the bell rope, gave it an upward twist that lodged it high up in the carving above the fireplace, then:"I do!" he made answer, turning and facing his kinsman again. "I say that you shall not, Lord Philip Desmond—I!"CHAPTER XXIV.
"THEY MUST KEEP WHO CAN."Even in that supreme moment, Desmond did not quite comprehend the situation, did not realize his own peril.So well had his treacherous kinsman kept the secrets of his shameful past, so well had he made him believe that he was his devoted friend, that even now he mistook the dark and dreadful purpose, shining out at him from the man's glittering eyes."If you are doing this thing in my interest, Sleaford; if you have persuaded yourself that I am still too weak to engage in such a task at present, for once in your life you are going a step too far," he said angrily. "Even the best of friends may presume sometimes, and as—""Friends!" The word as it dropped from Sleaford's lips was little more than a hiss. "Do you think that we have ever been that, you and I? Do you think that it is as a friend I stand before you now? You fool! If you never knew that I hated you before, know it now! Friends! Do you know that I wept for joy when they brought me news that you were dead? Friends! You fool! You fool!"The truth had been spoken at last—out of his own lips he had condemned himself, with his own hands he had unmasked himself, and it was the real Matthew Sleaford who stood looking into his kinsman's eyes now.The shock of the thing—harder than ever to bear in his weakened state, fell upon Desmond with crushing violence, and he involuntarily recoiled before the white, malignant face of his cousin."So we understand each other at last," said Slea-

ford in a ragged voice, as he sprang to the door, locked it, pulled out the key, and then sprang back again with the craft and swiftness of a leaping tiger. "You know now that it is not as a friend, but as an enemy I came between you and that bell!""An enemy!""Yes, an enemy, who hates you from the very depths of his soul and will not suffer you to tear him down from the heights to which he has climbed. It is no longer as a poor dependent I speak to you—it is no longer as a recipient of your bounty I stand before you, for the tables are turned since last we met, and the outcast is the heir, the heir the outcast. My foot is on my own hearthstone, my head beneath my own rooftree, and it is I—not you—who am lord and master here.""Do you mean—""Exactly what you are this moment recollecting for the first time!" supplemented Sleaford sharply. "In the eyes of the world Lord Philip Desmond is a dead man, in the eyes of the law he ceased to exist when the steamer Atlantic foundered at sea, and to me, as next of kin, the crown has awarded his title and estates.""Great Heaven!""Ah, you grow pale, my estimable cousin, and well may you do so, for never a man walked into a worse trap than you have done to-night. Now, listen to me: The crown has not only accepted the fact of your death, but has been satisfied of the death of the woman you married as well, and in the absence of any nearer heir, in the absence of any will or deed of gift, the fortune you might have left away from me has come to me, with the title; and, at this moment, Philip Desmond does not own a stick or a stone, nor possess so much as a shilling in all the world. It is Lord Matthew Desmond's checks that are honored, it is Lord Matthew Desmond's money

that lies in the vaults of the Bank of England, and you stand to-night a homeless and nameless pauper—a friendless outcast—a living dead man, who has not one legal right nor one penny of his own in all the world."Now, mark well my words: Will you remain that living dead man, will you go away and live on my bounty as I once lived on yours, or will you lose that which is dearer to you than either name or wealth? If you do not comprehend me, let me speak plainer: Your lowborn Yankee wife still lives, and I—I alone know where she is. The report of her death was as untrue in fact as the report of yours. She lives, but she is not here—she is not even in England—nor will she ever be. The report of her death she will not deny, the name you bestowed upon hr she will not claim, for you never gave her your marriage certificate, and she believes herself not your wife, but your victim.""God in heaven—it cannot be!""It can be, and it is. She knows your real name and title, but she believes that marriage to have been a mockery, believes that you are a scoundrel who traded on her ignorance for your own purposes; believes that when you led her to the altar you already had a lawful wife living, and that that wife has inherited your fortune."If you care for her love, it may even be yet yours, but only on conditions: You must remain what you are in the eyes of the law—a dead man. You must take an oath to go away—and now, this very hour—and never to the day of your death breathe your secret to any living being, or venture to cross my path again. In return for that oath I will settle upon you sufficient money to live in comfort all the rest of your life. I will direct you where and how to find your wife, and you shall go to her as fast as steam can carry you."Consent to do this thing, consent to renounce your name, your position, your title, and I will settle upon you the sum of twenty thousand pounds, and write you a check for the amount the instant you have given me your solemn oath.""Your plan has one great merit—clearness," responded Desmond, as he ceased speaking. "But you have not yet shown me the reverse of the medal. You have only told me what you are ready to do if I consent, but what if I refuse?""Death," said Sleaford, bending forward and speaking through his shut teeth. "If you refuse, so help me Heaven you will never leave this room a living man. If you ever were strong enough to battle against me, you are not strong enough now. Did I not tell you that you had walked into a trap when you came here?"No one knows of your presence in the house, no one has seen you enter here, no one dreams that you still exist. We are alone, Philip Desmond, and I am a desperate man. Now, let me have your answer. Which will you choose? Exile or death?"Desmond's eyes had been wandering wildly about the room in quest of a means of escape from this awful trap, and now, as Sleaford ceased speaking, he answered sharply:"Neither! My choice is the choice of the men of my race. I will fight for my wife and fight for my name! I will resign nothing that is rightly mine, yield nothing, and show no quarter to a thief?"And then, before Sleaford could stay him, before he even guessed his intention, he bounded up to the nearest niche, with frantic hands reached up to the mailed hands of the effigy standing there, and, with one furious wrench, tore from its grasp the glittering battle-ax upon which its steel gloves rested.In an instant he had whirled again, the battle-ax was swung above his head, his white, set face and

tangled yellow hair gleamed in the streaming moonlight, and, standing thus, he called out to his foe, as old Lord Eldred, the founder of the race, had called out through the din of battle in the forgotten long ago."For life, for love, for honor! Desmond is here! Who seeks him?"CHAPTER XXV.
THE ISSUE OF THE FRAY.As those words rang forth from the lips of the young marquis, and his white, drawn face looked into the face of his treacherous kinsman, Sleaford involuntarily drew back, and his countenance, pale with desperation before, gleamed ivory white in the faint glow of the moonshine that struck in through the painted windows.There was something awe inspiring—something absolutely uncanny, in the sight of that pale, trembling figure standing there—brave even in his weakness—with the gleaming battle-ax swung high above his tawny head, and on his lips the words made famous by the lips of the dead in England's long ago.The usurper, awed for the moment by the startling spectacle and the still more startling realization that the man whose birthright he had stolen was not so helpless as he had thought, slunk back, and, in a voice of suppressed fury, spluttered forth an oath."So, then, the tables are not to be turned so readily as you had hoped. A Desmond is not to be cheated of his own with such ease as you were fool enough to believe," went on the young marquis, heedless, in his excitement, of this cruel exertion of his mental and physical powers in his present weakened condition."Coward! You have thrown off your mask of hypocrisy too soon, and played your cards recklessly, and so lost the stake which was all but won. Fool, you should have had me in your grasp, before you revealed your villainous intentions and betrayed your treacherous character; for now that I am armed, weak though I am, I am still a match for you."Still Sleaford did not speak. Like a rat that is

driven into a corner, he stood there breathing hard and glancing wildly about him, but all of a moment his face lit up, his eyes glittered, and he saw, or fancied that he saw, a way out of the difficulty.For there were other armored knights in other niches—other effigies, whose mailed hands rested upon lance or battle-ax, and once let him emulate his kinsman's example, and pluck a weapon from one of these—While the thought was yet but half framed in his mind, he sprang to put it into execution, but, lo! as he moved, Desmond moved, also, and a living barrier came between him and the nearest niche."Back!" panted the young marquis, giving the upraised battle-ax an ominous swing. "Move another foot toward any one of the niches, and I will cleave open your head from brow to chin. Back! back! Do you hear me, or you are a dead man!""Curse you!" spluttered Sleaford, recoiling sharply before the white, desperate face and the keen, glittering blade that shone out at him in the moonlight. "Ah, if I only had a revolver you would be lying dead at my feet at this moment.""I do not doubt it," responded Desmond. "Scoundrel that you are, I can realize now that you would not stop even at butchery to win your treacherous game. But you haven't a revolver, and so— Faugh! I will not stop to parley with you. I will not waste another word upon such a despicable hound. Now, then, unlock that door and let me pass out of this room at once. Unlock it, do you hear me? There is a bell out there with which I can arouse the servants, since you have rendered the one in here useless. I am wise enough, you see, to remember that these rooms are in the north tower, and from the location of this apartment, one might shriek for help until doomsday without so much as the faintest sound reaching the ears of the servants sleeping in the tower of the

isolated north wing, and so—open the door—do you hear me? Open the door, and then take up your post in yonder corner and turn your face to the wall until I have left the room."Once again Sleaford did not stir—did not utter so much as a single word.He had slunk back until he now stood in his old position by the fireplace, his body resting for support against the very chair in which Lord Desmond had been seated so short a time before, and his chest rising and falling with sharp, convulsive heaves.As he leaned his whole weight against the chair its position was disturbed, and it slid for the distance of an inch or two along the polished floor.He put his hand behind him and clutched it to keep it from sliding farther, but as his fingers closed upon the carved back of it, he caught his breath with one keen, sibilant gasp, and again that ominous light of hope came back into his face and eyes.Desmond saw it, realized that he had again hit upon some plan for staying the ruin that threatened to overtake him, but could not guess what that plan might be."Do you hear me?" he said again, as he brandished the battle-ax. "Unlock that door, and do as I bade you. Unlock it, I say, or I will not scruple to reach it over your dead body."It is not alone my own life, but the life and honor of my wife that are at stake, and if, in one minute's time, you do not open that door and let me go free—""I will never open it. I will never allow you to go, and ruin me—never!" cut in Sleaford hoarsely, "and if you ever reach the door it will have to be over my dead body.""You mean to pit your strength against this weapon, then? You mean to drive me to slay you before you will yield?"Yes, I mean even that," responded Sleaford, through his shut teeth. "I gave you your chance, and you would not take it. I offered you your life, and you would not accept it; now take the consequences of your folly, and bear your secret with you to the grave!"As he spoke, he stepped sharply aside, his hands closed together upon the carven back of the chair, swung it forward, swung it aloft, and then, before Desmond could dream of his intention, hurled it to-ward him through the air, with all the strength of his powerful arms.Before the young marquis could spring aside, the heavy missile was upon him.With a thud, it struck him full in the chest, and, staggered by it, he reeled back, his feet slipped upon the treacherous surface of the polished floor, his hands flew out suddenly in a wild effort to recover his lost balance, and the next instant man, chair, and battle-ax went down together with a crash that shook the very walls.There was no one to guard the niches now, and, like a tiger, Sleaford sprang to the nearest.His hands rent from the steel-gloved hands of the effigy the long-handled halberd about which they were clasped, and, armed with this, he sprang toward his kinsman. But Desmond was already upon his feet again, and, with all his feeble strength, was whirling the battle-ax above his head, its bright blade making flashing circles in the moonlight, until his face shone out under a prodigious halo of glittering steel."Keep back!" he panted, as he faced his foe. "I will not spare you—it is for life I fight—for life and honor! Keep back, I tell you, keep back, keep back!"But Sleaford heeded not.Armed with that mighty halberd and the strength that comes of perfect health, he knew himself to be more than a match for the wasted, weakened, tot-

tering man before him; and, like a fury, he began the attack.Again and yet again the steel blades clashed, and struck off fire, again and yet again the invalid managed to parry the murderous thrusts and heavy, sweeping strokes of his assailant; then, all of a moment, Sleaford found the opportunity for which he had been eagerly striving, and, with one furious upward stroke, caught the battle-ax with the hook of his halberd, wrenched it from his kinsman's hand, and sent it flying backward over his own head.Disarmed, the marquis sprang back, but all too late to escape the murderous blow aimed at him by the desperate assassin.With devilish cunning, Sleaford had managed to work him round until his back was toward the fireplace and retreat was there impossible; for, as he recoiled, he collided suddenly with the chimneypiece and could go no farther.Driven thus into a corner from which there was no escape, his kinsman had him at his mercy, and, with a laugh of brutal triumph, lunged violently forward.The spearlike top of the halberd pierced Desmond's right side, a jet of blood spurted forth and sprayed with warm crimson the murderous hands that dealt the blow, and, with one loud shriek of pain, the marquis fell forward and lay on his face at the usurper's feet."Die, die!" spluttered Sleaford, as he flung aside the unwieldy halberd, and, stooping, caught up the battle-ax he had struck from his victim's hand, and whirled it aloft with the intention of burying its keen blade in the skull of the prostrate man. "I offered you life, and you would not have it; now take your death from the hand you have turned against you, and go down to a nameless and dishonored grave!"As he spoke, he stooped to give greater force to his stroke, but—that stroke was never delivered!For suddenly there was a sharp, clashing sound behind him, the central window—the window he had closed but never locked—flew suddenly open, a dark figure sped across the track of moonlight upon the floor, a voice cried out in shrill, excited tones: "Stop! Stop! you madman!" and the usurper, starting back as the owner of that voice came between him and his prey, found himself looking down into the white face and dilated eyes of Ned Twyford!CHAPTER XXVI.
A DEADLY DEED.Words cannot describe the sensation of amazement and horror that came over him as he recognized the steward's face, and awoke to the realization that there had been a witness to that awful scene—a witness whom it was impossible to deceive as to the identity of the man lying there, seemingly lifeless, with his face turned to the floor, his arms thrown wide apart, and his hands shut like the hands of a man who has died hard.Armed as he was, and secure in the knowledge that nothing which happened here in this apartment could by any possibility be heard by the servants—the only other living beings in the house—in their isolated quarters in the far-away north tower, Sleaford might easily, by one desperate stroke, have laid the steward beside his master and screened murder with murder; and it is not at all unlikely that he would have done so had he had time to collect his scattered senses; but, as it was, Twyford's appearance upon the scene had come about so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and with such startling effect, that the usurper was for a time absolutely paralyzed by the shock, and so overcome with horror and astonishment that his very nerves refused to obey him, and the battle-ax actually slipped from his trembling hands.The echoing clash of its fall on the oaken floor seemed to spur his torpid senses into life and activity again.He stooped, with an angry snarl, and caught it up once more, and but for a quick movement on Twyford's part, a double murder would have been perpetrated then and there.The steward had flung himself on his knees beside the motionless figure of the marquis, and, as Sleaford stooped and grasped the handle of the battle-ax, Twyford's sinewy hands reached out and gripped it, also, and held it as in the grasp of a vise."Do you want to kill your best friend?" he cried, reading in Sleaford's eyes the dark purpose that was in his mind. "Don't be a fool! Haven't I sworn to stand by you in everything, and if I meant to betray you, do you think I would have come in here and put myself in your power like this?"Sleaford caught his breath, with a queer, strangling gasp, and his whole face lighted suddenly like that of a man who, with his foot upon the very steps of the scaffold, receives news that he has been pardoned."You mean to stick by me even—even in this?" he gulped, a ghastly parody of a smile breaking over his lips."Yes, I mean to stick by you even in this," repeated Ned. "Didn't I say, if you kept me on, I'd be your slave? And isn't a slave's first duty silence and obedience to the will of his master? Stick by you? Why shouldn't I stick by you? Haven't you acted fairly by me? Isn't it only right and just that I should act fairly by you in return?""Yes, yes, you're quite right—it's only just that you should do this, as you say, Twyford," stammered Sleaford, in reply. "But perhaps you do not realize the hideous peril. You do not know who that man really is, or you would not have stayed my hand, when I was about to finish him. Turn him over, look at his face, and you will know then why I have done this desperate thing.""There's no need for that—I know already," responded Twyford. "I have been there at the window ever since he first came in, and I have heard every word that passed between you. You see, I couldn't

sleep when the other servants went to bed; some instinct warned me that there was danger threatening you, and I'd better be on the watch to protect your interests as well as my own. So I got out of my bed, dressed myself again, and stole out into the grounds to see that nothing happened to you; for you told me you had letters to write, and would be in the library until very late. But what is the use of going into details? I got into the grounds just in time to see him thrust open the window and steal in here, and after that I sat still and listened.""Then you know—""That he is the Marquis of Desmond, and that the report of his
death was incorrect," supplemented Twyford. "Yes, I know that—as well as I know that what you said to him about his wife being still alive was a story made out of whole cloth. But what is that to me? The Marquis of Desmond was never a friend of mine—he never did me a good turn, and you did, so why should I care whether he was lost in the wreck of the Atlantic—as 'everybody thought—all those weeks ago or only died to-night. When I peeped its and saw him take down that battle-ax and face you, I made up my mind that he should never leave this room a living man, even if I had to take up arms against him myself, and I would have jumped in here and come to your assistance if you hadn't come that clever dodge with the chair, and polished him off yourself. From the moment I awoke to the knowledge of who he really was, I knew that he had to die to make things right and square for you, even if I had to kill him with my own hand.""And yet, in spite of that, you prevented me front giving him the finishing stroke, and acted as though you really had an interest in his life," returned Sleaford, with an impatient gesture. "But now that we understand each other, it would be folly to hesitate longer. Stand out of the way, Twyford, and let me

give the fool his quietus without further delay. One blow from the ax will finish him forever, and, after that, I shall be sure of my position.""No—don't! don't! You would be mad to do it!" interposed Twyford hastily and excitedly. "Don't you see—don't you understand? You've finished him, as it is, or, if you haven't, it will soon be done, and in a safer way than this. Do you want to make a slaughterhouse of this place? The blood that has been shed already will take some time to clean up—for there mustn't be a trace of it left behind, or Heaven alone knows what may not be the result. If you were to shed more the rugs would be soaked with it—and the new servants, who are to come to-morrow, could not fail to be suspicious, and perhaps—who knows?—their suspicions might be communicated to others, and raise a hornets' nest about one's ears.""You are right," said Sleaford, with a shudder. "I had not thought of that. Still, we must finish him somehow, for I shall not be safe until he is dead and all trace of him removed from my path forever.""All trace of him shall be removed," responded Twyford, "and removed in the easiest and safest way. Didn't I tell you a moment since that I thought you had finished him, and that even if you hadn't, it would soon be done, and in a safer manner? Now, listen to me: Living or dead, let us bury him without delay, and so make sure of his never troubling you again.""Bury him?" repeated Sleaford hoarsely. "Good Heaven, how? Where? Not a foot of earth, save that of the flower beds, has been disturbed about the castle for centuries, and if we were to break fresh ground to-night it would eventually be discovered, and the whole county would be talking about it before many days.""Still, you would have had to bury him somehow or somewhere, if you had brained him, as you were

going to do when I stopped you. You couldn't have kept the body here, you know, and still less could you have dragged it all those miles between here and the coast and sunk it in the sea.""Good Heaven! I had forgotten that, and it must have been my guardian spirit that sent you here to my assistance in this time of need, Twyford. Some-thing must be done, but what? How can we bury him, and where?"Twyford appeared to be lost in thought for a moment; then he looked up suddenly."I know the very place," he said. "It couldn't be better if it were designed for the purpose—the ruined keep, my lord.""The ruined keep!""Yes, in the underground cells. They are not paved, you know, and it will be easy enough to dig a grave in one of those without risking discovery, for no one visits them from year's end to year's end; so the fact that the earthen floor had been disturbed would never be discovered.""By Heaven, you are right!" exclaimed Sleaford joyfully. "Since the ruin was declared unsafe some five years ago, neither tourists nor the people of the county have been permitted to visit it, and, as you say, a better place could not be found, for you have only to tell the new servants when they come that the masonry is liable to fall and entomb any one who ventures into the place, and they are, therefore, forbidden to enter it. By that means all possibility of discovery will be averted, and Desmond will sleep his last long sleep—unsuspected and forgotten—in the dungeon keep of his ancestors, with the Thetford ruins for his tomb! Twyford, you are a jewel, and, by George! you shall be well rewarded for that excellent suggestion.""I don't ask for any reward," responded Ned. "I

only wanted to stay here and finish my days near the old home, where I was born, and when you granted me that boon you bound me to you for life.""Good fellow! good fellow!" responded Sleaford, patting him approvingly upon the shoulder. "Now, then, let us lose no more time, Ned, in conveying Desmond to the keep and getting him underground.""Wait a bit. We must have cords to bind him, and something to gag him, my lord, in case he shouldn't be dead, after all, and should revive and begin shrieking for help, as we bear him through the grounds. The stables are near, you know, and the grooms may be light sleepers.""Right!" returned Sleaford. "You think of everything, old chap."Then, with the hook upon the back of the halberd, he lifted the tassel of the bellrope from the place where he had flung it among the carving far up above the fireplace, and, with the aid of the same implement detached the other end of it from the loop of wire that connected it with the bell. To get it down was but the work of a moment, and, with these lengths, Twyford tightly bound the feet and hands of the still unconscious marquis.His next task was to remove a silk covering from the back of one of
the chairs and bind it in several folds over Lord Desmond's
mouth. This being done, all was at last in readiness for the journey
to the ruined keep. Stealing to the window, Sleaford carefully swung
it open, then the two men lifted their unconscious burden between them
and stole softly out into the grounds, the usurper pausing a moment to
close the window behind them before they glided across the terrace and
got into the shadow of the shrubbery. A deep stillness, broken only by
the ceaseless buzzing sound of insects in the grove and a plaintive
note wailed out by a nightingale far off somewhere in the moonlit distance, reigned everywhere

about them as they glided onward with their burden, the stars lighting them on their way.Unseen and unsuspected, they stole along through the shrubbery to the grove, then across the bit of "open," where the stables stood, and so came at length to a halt at the ruined keep."Wait! We must have spades and a lantern," said Ned, signaling Sleaford to deposit the body of their victim on the stones as they passed under the ruined archway and stood in a flagged corridor with the bats flashing and circling about them, and the white owls—disturbed by this intrusion—hooting dismally from the ivy overhead."Stop here and watch by him, my lord, and I will be back presently with everything we require."With that, he slipped out and vanished, and the last Sleaford saw of him for many minutes was when he glided across the bit of "open" and cautiously made his way in the direction of the stables.He came back after a time with a spade and a sharp-pronged garden fork under his arm, and an unlighted stable lantern swinging from his wrist.In the shelter of the ruin he struck a match and applied it to the bit of candle with which the lantern was supplied, and a moment later the descent to the underground vaults was begun. Down a crumbling stone stairway, green from the damp and thick with rotted leaves blown in by many a wintry gale, the two men picked their way with their helpless burden—down, down, until the air became foul and musty, and the steps damp with moisture and mildew—down and still down, until they reached the bottom of the staircase and stood, at length, in the earthen-floored corridor, upon which the underground vaults opened.There were a half dozen of them situated at intervals upon either side of the twisting cavernous passage, some supplied with stout oaken doors studded with ponderous spikes, others with grated iron bars,

that were red with rust and so shrouded with cobwebs that to see beyond the cross-barred squares was absolutely impossible, and still others standing wide open, for time and rust had eaten through the hinges of the doors and let them fall to the earthen floor.It was before the first of these that Twyford called a halt, and, leaving Sleaford to stand guard over the captive, ran back up the stone staircase for the spade and garden fork, left in the upper corridor.He came back after a bit with both implements under his arm, and, taking up the lantern, led the way into the doorless vault."Come, you must help me at this, for time presses," he said to Sleaford, as he set the lantern down upon the floor and threw off his coat. "I never dug a man's grave before, and in this hard earth I reckon it will want a bit of doing, my lord."Then he took up the spade and marked out a rectangular space upon the earthen floor of the vault as a guide to their labors, and, without a word, Sleaford stripped off his dress coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and took up the garden fork.For half an hour they worked together in silence, tossing out the earth which, after the hard top crust was broken, proved easy enough to remove—for half an hour the spade and the fork were plied with furious haste, and the heap of earth beside the grave grew and grew; then, all of a sudden, Twyford caught up the lantern and held it over the yawning hole."It's deep enough," he said, laying aside his spade and turning to the silent figure lying on the floor. "Come, lend a hand, my lord, and we'll tumble him ht at once, and—eh? What! By Jove, you were right—you hadn't done for him, after all, for, look, he has recovered consciousness, and is staring at us.""Curse him! He won't stare long, then," exclaimed Sleaford savagely, lifting the garden fork and direct-

ing its steel tines toward Desmond's breast. "One 'jab' with this will soon settle him, and so—""What's the use of that? Haven't we had blood enough already?" growled Twyford, striking the fork aside. "He won't last long, with the earth packed down upon him, and, at all events, it's the cleaner way."Saying this, he stooped and caught the marquis by the collar, dragged him to the edge of the grave, and tumbled him in.The staring, awful eyes looked up at him with an agony unspeakable, but he heeded them not, and, catching up the spade, began to shovel in the earth. The first spadeful covered the marquis' feet, the second buried his legs, as far as the knees, and he had just bent to take a third spadeful, when he paused suddenly, as though an idea had just come to him."There's no need for two of us on this part of the job," he said, glancing up at Sleaford. "Time's precious, and I can manage to bury him alone—it was only with the digging that I needed help—and there's all those bloodstains in the library to be removed yet. Go back, my lord, go back, for Heaven's sake, and be quick about it; for there's no knowing what may happen if they are left there and that wretched window still unlocked.""What a fool I am not to have thought of that before," exclaimed Sleaford, startled by these words and the grim foreboding they raised; then, catching up his coat, he hastily donned it, ran out of the vault, groped his way along the corridor and up the staircase to the outer air, and flew with fear-winged feet in the direction of the library.No, nobody had been there.Everything was as he had left it—the overturned chair, the battle-ax and the halberd, and that dark, crimson stream trickling across the floor and staining the white fur rug.He unlocked the door and flew to the lavatory; he came back with sponge and towels and hot water, and, sinking on his knees, began to wash out the traces of his hideous crime.Twenty minutes later, when the work was done and he stole back to the ruined keep to report to Ned, he found the work there done, also.The heap of mold had been shoveled in, the grave was filled level with the floor, and he found Twyford standing over it, beating down the earth with the back of his spade and doing all in his power to remove every trace of that night's gruesome work.CHAPTER XXVII.
BETWEEN DARK AND DAWN.The stable clock was striking the third quarter after two when they emerged from the ruin and walked back toward the castle; the nightingale had ceased to sing, the moon had set, and all the earth was steeped in that utter darkness which precedes the coming dawn.They walked on in silence until they reached the library window."Come in," said Sleaford, catching Twyford by the arm and drawing him into the room. "Ned, old chap, you are the pearl of good fellows, and what a pity it is I didn't know your real value long ago. Sit down; there's a good fellow, and let me pour you out a glass of brandy. By Jove!" striking a match and lighting one of the candles upon a writing table near at hand, "you are as white as a sheet, old chap, and you are actually trembling as though you were prey to nerves.""I'm a bit 'done up,' my lord," responded Twyford, passing his hand across his damp forehead and shifting uneasily in his chair. "It's many a long day since I did so much hard work as that, and I reckon I've grown a bit rusty from long idleness. A job like that does take it out of a chap when he's been leading an idle life for a couple of years, and, I dare say, I'll be stiff enough to-morrow."Thanks," he added, taking the glass of brandy and swallowing it at one gulp. "Ah, that does put life into a fellow, no mistake! But what was I saying? Oh, yes—about being stiff to-morrow—stiff and fagged out. I hope I've done your lordship a good turn to-night, and—""You have, Ned, you have—the very best turn any-

body ever did, and I assure you I am gratified for it, and will be all the days of my life.""I'm sure it's very kind of your lordship to say so, and it sort of emboldens me to ask a favor of you.""Ask anything you like, Ned, and I promise to grant it. What do you want? Money?""No, my lord, no. I'm a saving man, and I've got enough to supply my feeble wants. What I wanted to ask your lordship was this: As I'm afraid I won't be fit for much to-morrow, after so much exertion, I'd like to know if your lordship would excuse me from my duties for this once, and give me leave to lie in bed all day, and sort of pull myself together with a good, long rest.""Certainly I will, Ned—certainly—with pleasure. Lie in bed for two days, if you wish to, old chap.""No, my lord; one will be enough, thank you. I know it sounds foolish for a great, hulking fellow like me to talk about breaking down like a woman, but, you see, I've been leading an idle life—so far as bodily labor is concerned—for such a long time that it's sort of sapped my vitality, and that's the whole of it. But if your lordship will be so kind as to see in my stead that the servants are paid off and dismissed to-morrow, and the telegram sent to London for new ones, I'll take it as the biggest kind of a favor, and be uncommonly grateful for it.""It shall be done, I promise you, Ned," said Sleaford. "So toddle off to the steward's lodge and tumble into bed with a clear conscience, old chap; and if there's no one else to take your meals to you, I'll carry them down to the lodge myself.""No, please don't my lord," responded Twyford, rising. "I'll be too tired to eat—too tired to do any-thing but sleep, and if you'll only be so kind as to let nobody come nigh the lodge till I've slept myself out I'll turn up here in the evening as fresh as a daisy,
and as right as rain."Very well, then; you shall have your way," promised Sleaford, as he escorted him to the window. "No-body shall disturb you, and nobody shall go near the lodge until I see you here again. And, now, good night, old chap, good night, and pleasant dreams.""Good night, my lord," responded Twyford, rather disdaining or failing to notice the hand held out to him; then he clapped on his cap and trudged away, and the last Matthew Sleaford saw of him he was hastening away toward the steward's lodge, at the other end of the estate."Good fellow! good fellow! He is the very prince of villains, and what a fool I was never to have guessed his real character until to-night," he muttered, as he closed and locked the window, and, after
a careful survey of the library, blew out the light and stole upstairs
to bed. "Come what may, he's bound to me now, and dare not speak should he ever turn against me; for it was he, not I, who actually killed Desmond—killed him by burying him alive—and my cause is his cause after that."But he might not have felt so sure of his man could he have followed and heard and seen what happened three-quarters of an hour later under the bedroom window of Mr. Timothy Taggert, the village "carrier" of Deephaven Royals."Good Lauk a-mercy, Tim, there's somebody a-knockin' at the door, and a-callin' out for you!" exclaimed Mrs. Timothy, waking suddenly from her slumbers and giving her snoring husband a dig in the ribs with her elbow. "Wake up, wake up, do, and go see what it is. Something dreadful important, I know, for it's after half past three o'clock, and no-body would come knocking up respectable people on a tom-fool's errand at this hour of the morning. Law, don't you hear 'em a-poundin' and shoutin'? Get up, do, and see what it's all about."Whereupon, Mr. Taggert, with the weakness of a

man who has been a henpecked husband for sixteen years, obeyed."Hello, there—you that's playing high jinks with the door knocker—who the dickens are you, and what the dickens do you want, rousin' honest folks out of their beds when it's neither night nor morning, and the very cocks aren't begun to crow yet?" he shouted out, as he threw up the bedroom window and popped out his head.As he spoke, the knocking ceased. A figure—almost shapeless in the darkness—stepped out from beneath the vine-wreathed portico of the cottage door and a voice called softly back in reply:"It is I, Mr. Taggert, and I want to see you upon very important business.""See me, then, and be dashed to you, for I'm three parts out of the window, as it is. Who are you, anyhow?""Ned Twyford, the steward of Thetford Castle.""Oh, Lauk! Excuse me, I didn't recognize your voice, Mr, Twyford, that I didn't. Sarah! Sarah! Get me my trousers, and light a candle, quick. Deary me! it's Mr. Twyford, from the castle, and I can't imagine what's wanted.""You're wanted—you and your horse and dray," responded Ned, "and if you want to make five pounds, Taggert, be lively about it. Harness up your horse and come over to the rear gate of the castle grounds, and I'll be there waiting for you. Lord Desmond has a case of statuary that he wants taken up to London at once, and it must be there before ten o'clock in the morning. As there's no train until eight, he's willing to pay you five pounds to take it up on your dray, if you'll come for it at once, and without a moment's delay.""Five pounds!" gasped Mr. Taggert, amazed by the sum. "Lord, yes, I'll do it, Mr. Twyford, and thanky very kindly for fetchin' the job to me. A case o'

statuary, you say? And to be called for at the rear gate o' the castle grounds? Where's it to be took?, To what part o' London, I mean?""You'll know that when you get there," responded Twyford. "I'm
going with you, Taggert, and I'll give you all the necessary
directions. Now, then, hop into your clothes, and come over to the rear gate as fast as possible.""Right you are," responded Mr. Taggert; then he drew in his head, the window closed with a bang, and Twyford, facing about suddenly, dashed off into the darkness like a man pursued.CHAPTER XXVIII.
UNDER THE TREES.It was past four o'clock in the morning when Ned Twyford and
Mr. Timothy Taggert departed, upon the latter's dray, for London, in
company with an oblong chest, marked "Statuary—with care," and,
having a slatted top, through the spaces of which could be seen an
inner covering of coarsely woven bagging; and it was exactly a quarter
to six in the evening when Twyford returned by train, and, alighting
at the Deephaven Station, avoided the village streets and plunged into a lane which boasted of no houses and had the negative advantage of leading nowhere in particular.That is to say, it began at a point some twenty yards distant from
the station, and, after skirting the village for a mile or so, dwindled away into a mere straggling footpath, that finally became lost entirely in the intricacies of a dismal, wooded, boggy tract of waste land known as the Deephaven woods, beyond which lay the "down," and beyond that again the silver streak of restless, treacherous, turbulent channel, which divides the coasts of England and France. Now, this path which Ned had chosen was, if he wished to reach Thetford Castle, the very longest and most roundabout way to that storied pile, but it possessed this one advantage, that nobody traversing it would be seen by the inhabitants of the village, and this, to a man who wished to leave no clew to his movements and to meet no one who knew him, counted for much. Ned Twyford wished to do those very things.His chief desire was to keep the fact that he had left the village
after parting from Mr. Matthew Sleaford last night from ever reaching
Mr. Matthew Sleaford's ears, and his aim now was to get through the

woods, cut across the downs to the wooded road which gave access to the rear gateway of the castle grounds, and then to present himself to his master as though he had just concluded the long period of rest for which he had asked and had not until that moment set foot beyond the threshold of the steward's lodge."If I don't meet any one beforehand, all well and good," he muttered, as he strode along, "if I do—or if he should see me entering the grounds—I can easily say that I've been off for a tramp over the downs to blow the cobwebs out of my brains after my long sleep, and he won't ever suspect that I've been nigh the station, seeing me come home from this direction! I'm clean fagged out, and shall be glad enough to tumble into bed as soon as I get a chance; for I haven't had a wink of sleep in six and thirty hours. However, I've done a good night's work, if I never did one before, and when I do tumble into bed I shall sleep with an easy conscience and feel that my game is safe at last."Before he was half an hour older he was destined to change his opinion upon that point; for he was yet to realize that of all the wretched fates that ever had led, dragged, or spurred him to do things that had resulted in mental torture, the cruellest was the one that took him into this path to-day, and so put him in the way of seeing and hearing something that well-nigh drove him frantic with rage and despair. It was the sound of voices that brought it home to him.He had cut through the woods and crossed the downs, and had got into the dim, tree-shadowed road that led to the castle, when he heard voices. Stopping short, with a suppressed exclamation, he dropped down in the gloom of the undergrowth and clenched his hands hard, remembering something he ought to have remembered before, namely, that upon this wooded road opened the grounds of Deephaven Villa, which, for the time being, was the abode of Miss Sylvia Mon-

tressor, the actress. It was not her voice, however, that he had heard, but the voice of one in which he had a nearer and dearer interest—in short, the voice of "Monsieur Henri Du Bois," whom he knew for a certainty, and, despite all attempts to hoodwink and deceive him, to be none other than his sister, Maggie, in disguise.A short distance from where he crouched in the undergrowth ran the thick hedge of laurels which inclosed the grounds of the villa. Now, employing those secret and silent arts of locomotion which he had learned in the Australian "bush," he sank down upon his stomach and soundlessly wriggled his way to-ward it, and, parting the hedge the veriest trifle, peered in, and saw what he expected to see—the pseudo valet engaged in earnest conversation with the great actress."No; I dare not stay longer, for I must be back at the castle in time to assist my master with his evening toilet. He has no idea that I have left the place, even for a moment, much less come here to keep an appointment with you, and, for the safety of our plans, it is best that I should be on hand to assist him when he calls."Those were the words that had first fallen upon Twyford's ears and induced him to pause and secretly investigate what was going on in the grounds of the villa, and, much as they startled him, they produced no such alarm as those he heard next:"Have courage and hope, dear," the voice of Gypsy tenderly said. "Now that you have told me your story, and the hope that has led you to come back here and risk this dangerous step, we can work together for our mutual interests, and I promise you that if I succeed in my game, and by your help, you shall at least have a share in the proceeds and such a share as will keep you in ease all the rest of your life.""Oh, you are good, you are generous, you are more

than kind," responded huskily the disguised valet, catching her hand and covering it with grateful kisses. "It must be your mission upon earth to enslave the hearts of all who come near you, for you won mine, and, I only know that I would gladly help you to succeed, even if no good were ever to come out of it for me.""But good will come out of it for you—it will—it must," returned Gypsy enthusiastically. "Something stronger than mere suspicion tells me that you will succeed in finding what you have risked so much to seek, and that the hour which brings my triumph will bring yours, also, Maggie, dear.""I hope so!" was the husky response. "I can't bring myself to believe that it no longer exists. I can't shut my heart to the conviction that where he is it is hidden and there I shall eventually find it, and, if I fail here, then I must find some pretext to gain admission to Lord Desmond's town house in London, and search for it there. For he had rooms there at that time, just as he had rooms here."A horrible and unearthly sort of pallor crept over Ned Twyford's face as he heard those words; his eyes dilated, his whole face shook as with the palsy, and he bit his lips hard and dug his nails into the palms of his hands to keep from giving voice to the groan that welled up from his wrung heart."She must be stopped at that!" he said through his clenched teeth. "Whatever her game is, whatever the mysterious thing she seeks, she must be kept from going to that house in quest of it, if, to prevent it, I am obliged to trump up some scheme to get Sleaford to discharge her from his service. She won't trust in me, she won't have my friendship and assistance, but Heaven, she shan't spoil my game by her madness and her fealty to that actress. But, wait! Listen! I mustn't lose one word of the conversation."By this time the two figures had advanced until

they now stood at the little gateway which gave access to the wooded road, and within a dozen feet of the spot where the unsuspected listener lay hidden in the thick undergrowth."I must go, now," said the pseudo valet, "for the sun has set, and it must be after seven o'clock."In this part of England, and at this season of the year, the twilight lasts until after nine o'clock at night, and it is never really dark until quite ten."Kiss me good-by, dearest and kindest of friends, and do not hope to see me here again, for it is too great a risk. Matthew Sleaford must not suspect that you are upon terms of intimacy with his valet, must not dream that there is any secret understanding between us, or it might result in discovery and ruin for both. If there ever arises a necessity for me to see you in private at any time or place, I will contrive to send you a note by some one who can be trusted—some one of the village children, for instance, who will be glad to be my messenger for a sixpence, and will not be sufficiently worldly-wise to think it odd that I should write to you.""How clever and thoughtful you are, Maggie," said Gypsy, smiling. "When you send me such a note, you may depend upon my coming to meet you at the time and place specified; for, as you say, it is risky for you to come here again. And, now, good-by, and God bless you, dear, and may Heaven help us in our double game.""Amen!" responded the valet fervently. "Only let us play our cards well, and you shall yet be the mistress of Thetford Castle."Then, with a last wave of the hand, she flitted away down the dim, tree-shaded road, leaving Gypsy to retrace her steps to the house and Ned Twyford lying ghastly, speechless, wild-eyed, and alone under the shadow of the laurel hedge, with his hands tightly clenched.Presently he pulled himself up to a kneeling posture, and, with his eyes fixed in the direction his sister had taken, knelt there, for one whole minute, alternately tearing his hair and wringing his hands until the knuckles cracked, and breathing hard, like a spent runner."You idiot! You fool! You are hardly worth saving, after this!" he broke forth at length, apostrophizing his sister and speaking in a voice that spluttered in the tempest of his fury and despair, as the flame of a candle splutters in a strong wind. "So, then, for a share in the wealth she is to win by it, you are willing to help this woman to become Matthew Sleaford's wife and to let your own name go down to posterity as a wretched, worthless hussy, who ran away to a life of shame and let her poor old father and mother die broken-hearted and disgraced without a tear of anguish or a sigh of regret. Well, then, you shan't do it!"He sprang to his feet as he spoke, and stood there, shaking with wrath, his face flushed now to a vivid burning scarlet, his hands clenched, his eyes rolling, and his lips curled back until his teeth gleamed out between them like the teeth of a snarling dog."Do you hear what I say? You shan't do it!" he went on, in a low, hoarse voice. "They were my father and mother, as well as yours, and for the sake of that—for the memory of them—you shall bring no further disgrace upon them and me. If I can't wipe out your past, I will at least keep your future clean, and if I can't save you with your consent, I'll take your destiny into my own hands and save you with-out it.Of one thing I am now as certain as though you had confessed it to me with your own lips, you jade, and that is that you ran away from home and went, only you and Sleaford know where—and in spite of your willingness to remain the thing he made you, and,

for money's sake to let another woman win the right to bear his name, it is you, and no one but you, that he shall make his lawful wife."My plans are well laid, my schemes are fast ripening, and it will soon be my turn to make terms, soon be in my power to compel him to remove by honorable marriage the blot he put upon your name, you credulous, shallow-pated little fool."You shan't balk me in that, Maggie Twyford; you shan't cheat me out of the hope I have of one day kneeling by our mother's grave and calling out to her to sleep in peace, for the shadow of shame has been lifted at last, and her only daughter reclaimed from the ranks of the lost—no, neither you nor he nor yet this accursed actress shall rob me of that blessed hour, I swear it by my dead mother's name."This woman, this Sylvia Montressor, who has captured his fancy and bewitched you out of what few wits you ever had—is now, I see, a stumbling block in my path, and, like other stumbling blocks, must be removed! I must put an end to your intimacy with her, and I must do it without delay. If she's a good woman at heart—which I doubt, for no good woman would enter into a scheme to win a man simply for his wealth and title, and secretly promise another a share of the spoil for helping her do it—if she's a good woman, I say, she will one day bless me for having saved her from linking her life to that of a felon, and, if she's a bad one—no matter, she shan't balk me in my purpose, and all is said in that. So good-by to you for the present, Miss Sylvia Montressor. I know my game now, and, in a day or two, your cake shall be dough, and Ned Twyford shall hold you and your dupes in the hollow of his hand."Then, shaking his fist in the direction of the villa, he turned and stalked away, just as a small, childish figure with an armful of marguerites and wild poppies

turned into the wooded road from the direction of the downs. It was Jemima Ann."What the deuce was that fellow shakin' his fist at our house for,
I'd like to know," muttered she, stopping short and staring after
Twyford. "Well, I'm blowed, now, if it ain't that surly-lookin' chap
that was pointed out to me by our coachman as the steward of the
castle, when me and Miss Gypsy arrove at the station the day before
yesterday! Say, now! may I never see the back of my neck if I don't go
right indoors and tell Miss Gypsy all about this. But, no, I won't,
nuther"—stopping dead short again before she had taken three
steps toward the villa. "What's the good? It'll only worry her, and
she's all broke up as it is with the heap of things she's got on her
mind, poor dear! No, I won't tell her nuthin' about it, that's what!
I'll just hold my jaw and lay low, and keep my eyes peeled, and if
that fellow comes slouchin' round here and tries any games with Miss Gypsy, I'll come down on him like a thousand o' brick—come down on him with both feet, and he'll think a cyclone's struck him when he gets me on his back with my teeth in his ear and my two hands pickin' bokays out of his side boards and his hair!"CHAPTER XXIX.
PAVING THE WAY.Everything passed off in accordance with Ned Twyford's desires.His absence not having been even so much as dreamed of by any member of the household at the castle, and his return unseen by any one, not the faintest grain of suspicion attached itself to him when he finally presented himself before Sleaford and announced that he was quite himself again, his long sleep having done him a world of good."By Jove! you don't look it, then," exclaimed Sleaford, "for your eyes are hollow, and I never saw the lines in your face so deeply marked before. Perhaps you've overdone the matter, Ned! I've heard that too much sleep is as bad for a man as too little, and perhaps that's why you look so dragged out this evening.""Perhaps it is, my lord," acquiesced Ned; then the subject was dropped, and they fell to conversing about other things, Twyford playing the role of butler as well as steward for the nonce, since, with the exception of Monsieur Henri Du Bois, he was now the only servant in the house, the others having all taken their departure that afternoon; whereupon Sleaford, mindful of his promise to Ned, had ridden into the village and dispatched a messenger to the agency in London, with orders for a fresh supply of what he facetiously called "domestic animals.""There will be a whole retinue of them down here the first thing in the morning, Ned," he said, as he attacked the cold game pie and sundry other edibles that did duty for dinner to-night. "Fancy a marquis sitting down in 'his own ancestral halls' and mak-

ing a dinner from cold snacks! Ah, well, it will be only for to-night, that's one comfort, and it isn't a very great price to pay for such security as I now enjoy, eh, old chap? Come, sit down and dine with me. There are no prying eyes about to be shocked by the sight! There's nobody but our two selves—and my valet, Henri—in the house, and he's busy in his own room writing letters to his friends in France. Still, for fear he might intrude upon our privacy, just turn the key in the lock and then we will be quite secure."Ned did as commanded, then came and sat down with his master, and in this unusually sociable manner they dined and talked together.Nevertheless, Mr. Matthew Sleaford might not have felt so secure had he known that while he was drinking his wine and eating his cold game pie and talking over his plans with his steward, his valet, profiting by the fact of being the only servant in the house this evening, was carrying on a secret investigation of the apartments overhead.Armed with a long steel needle Monsieur Henri Du Bois was at that moment hurrying from room to room and thrusting the implement into the cushioned seats and backs and arms of every chair and sofa in sight, was searching every cupboard, examining the back of every picture, prying into every box and drawer contained in the four rooms that used to be the apartments occupied by Mr. Matthew Sleaford in the days when he was only a poor "hanger-on" of the Desmonds—those far-off, unhappy, almost forgotten days of the time when Maggie Twyford disappeared.But, eagerly as the poor, distracted creature prosecuted her search, she did not find the thing she sought that night, nor did she find it ever under the roof-tree of that unlucky house.On the morrow the new servants came down in a body to the castle, and, after being interviewed by the

steward, entered upon their duties forthwith, whereupon Mr. Sleaford, having now nothing to fear, sent a messenger over to Deephaven Villa inviting Gypsy to lunch with him, in quite an informal way, and to, metaphorically, kill two birds with one stone, by bringing with her such proofs as she possessed of Lord Desmond's American marriage, and at the same time go over the various apartments of the castle and view the treasures of its picture gallery."Of course, I am aware that this is hardly in strict accordance with 'Mrs. Grundy,'" the note of invitation concluded, "but what are the proprieties to those who love and who, in addition, have such a sacred cause as ours?—the cause of your poor, ill-used friend, the wife of that prince of rascals, Philip Desmond. But can't you press that dear, delightful little oddity of yours, Jemima Ann, into service as a chaperon, for none other is available at present, and I wish so much to show you what I fondly hope will be your future home."By the messenger who conveyed this communication to her Gypsy sent back a note of acceptance, and, accordingly, at one o'clock, she and Jemima Ann made their appearance at the castle."Gee whiz! but this 'ere house is a screamer, ain't it now, Miss Sylvia?" exclaimed Jemima Ann, admiringly, as she gazed about her upon the tapestried walls, the statuary, the paintings, and the armored knights in the great entrance hall. "Don't talk to me! This 'ere's the finest house that ever was! Look at it, will you—just look at it and weep. Pictures and marble figgers and big dolls in tin overcoats and trousers everywhere you look. Gee! it must have been rough on the tailors in them olden times when folks got their clothes made at the blacksmiths' shops, mustn't it? But the men don't seem to 'a' been no different then than they are now, for tin or no tin, they all bagged their trousers at the knees, didn't they? But

it must have been awful, wear'n them egg beaters on their heads and puttin' on their clothes with a monkey wrench."Oh, this is a house, this is—this just makes the parlor at the mission look sick. But one thing beats me, Miss Sylvia: Why didn't they put the carpets on the floors instead o' hangin' 'em up on the walls? and why don't they keep their dishes in the kitchen instead o' sittin' 'em all out in rows along them shelves up close to the ceiling? Miss Jerusha, she'd call that 'shiftless,' if she was to see it, and blamed if I don't think she'd be right.""Have you brought the proofs?" Mr. Sleaford contrived to whisper to Gypsy, as he led her through the picture gallery after luncheon was over, and Jemima Ann, who had stuffed herself like a small anaconda, sat, in a torpid state, and stared stupidly at the art treasures about her and mutely wondered, "Who the dickens did the washin' and ironin' in them there days, when folks wore collars like cart wheels with lace on the edge of 'em?" "Have you brought the proofs of your friend's marriage, Sylvia, that I may look over them before I begin the task I have set myself?""No," whispered Gypsy in return, "I have no proofs as yet—she did not send them to me. Only this"—showing him a photograph she had had taken from the portrait of Philip Desmond as printed in the paper found in his portmanteau. "Be very careful of it, for poor Gypsy wrote me that it was the only picture of him she possessed, and—is it the man you thought?""Yes," he answered, "I can doubt no more. It is the Irish nobleman—or, rather, the Irish scoundrel—I feared, Sylvia, when you told me your friend's unhappy story. May I keep the picture to show to my lawyers? and will you write and ask your friend to send you all the proofs she has?""Yes," said Gypsy simply.Then he put the photograph in his pocket and did not take it out again until that night, when, in the solitude of his own chamber, he destroyed it as he had destroyed the painting removed from the very frame which now enhanced his own portrait.The afternoon had worn away by the time they finished inspecting the many grand apartments of the castle, and more for Jemima Ann's gratification than for her own, Gypsy suffered him next to lead her into the magnificent grounds.It was here that Ned Twyford, who, all along, had been patiently awaiting his opportunity, made his appearance and cunningly laid the first block in the path he was so craftily paving."Pardon, my lord, I am very sorry to intrude business upon you at such a time," he said, removing his cap as he came up and joined them, "but I'm afraid there's something wrong with the reference of our new head groom, and, as I shall be too busy myself to attend to it for a day or two, would your lordship mind sparing Henri Du Bois to run up to London to-morrow and look into the fellow's reference for me?""Certainly not, if you wish it, Twyford," responded Sleaford. "I can do without him for a day, and he shall start for London at whatever hour you please.""Thank you, my lord," returned Ned; then bowing to Sleaford and Gypsy, he retired and went back to the steward's lodge."So far, so good," he muttered exultantly, as he went in and locked the door. "She has heard that Henri Du Bois is to go to London to-morrow, although the idiot shall do nothing of the sort, for when the time comes I'll contrive to find the opportunity to go myself. But she has heard that he is to go, and now the rest is easy."Then, unlocking his desk, he sat down to it, drew a sheet of paper to him, and with infinite care began to write a letter.It was not a long letter—scarcely two dozen lines at most—but it cost him such an effort to pen it that he made ten or a dozen copies before he produced one that suited him, and night had fallen before he finally slid this copy into an envelope, sealed and addressed it, and carefully stowed it away in an inner pocket."Shrewder fish have been caught on a hook far less cleverly baited," he muttered, as he put the letter out of sight. "Ned Twyford, it's only by the grace of God that you're an honest man, for you've shown yourself to-day to have the making of an infernal scoundrel in you, and if it wasn't for the cause, why, hang it, I'd be ashamed of you and so would the mother who bore you!"Then he got up and turned the mirror hanging over his desk so that he couldn't see the reflection of his face in it, and after that he slouched dejectedly into the kitchen of the lodge and began to prepare his evening meal.It was getting dark before he finished it, for he dawdled over it in a strange, preoccupied manner, but when the last morsel had been eaten, he arose, took down his hat from a peg, and, leaving the dishes to be washed at some less important time, walked out and strode away under the clustering trees.He struck out in the direction of Mr. Timothy Taggert's cottage, and, as he drew near to it, found, as he had anticipated, one of Mr. Timothy Taggert's numerous progeny catching glowworms under the wayside trees.He beckoned the boy, a sturdy, rosy-cheeked lad of ten years, to him, and then stalking up the road a few paces, halted under a wide-spreading oak tree and waited for the little fellow to come up to him."Harry," he said, when the boy paused before him. "Harry, can you read writing?""Why, yes, Mr. Twyford, of course I can.""And keep a secret and do as you are bidden, and

not tell anybody a word about it; if you're paid half a crown for the job? Can you do that, too?""Why, certainly I can—that is, if it's nothing; wrong, sir—nothing that would make mother sorry if she knew.""No, it's nothing of that sort, my lad. I would never ask you to do anything like that. Now, look here, do you see this stone?" stooping and touching a small rock at the foot of the tree."Yes, sir, I see it. Why?""Well, if you will come here and lift this stone at six o'clock to-morrow evening—at six o'clock, remember, no sooner and no later—you'll find a letter and a bright silver half crown under it. The half crown is for you, Harry, if you'll take that letter to the address written on it, and simply say to the servant into whose hands you give it that 'a gentleman gave it to you, and it's to be delivered immediately'—just that and no more—and then scamper off as fast as you can run. Now, then, that's an easy way to earn half a crown, isn't it, my lad?""Indeed it is, sir.""Then you'll do it?""Yes, sir, I will.""Good! Now, then, run away home and remember two things: First, that you're not to tell anybody about this; and, second, that you're not to lift the stone—not even to peep under it—until six o'clock to-morrow evening.""I will remember, sir," returned the boy; then he gave his forelock a tug and scampered off into the darkness.The moment he was out of sight Ned Twyford stooped, lifted the stone, laid under it the letter he had written and also a  bright silver half crown, replaced the stone, and, pulling down the peak of his cap, stalked back in the direction of the castle.You prince of rascals!" he said, apostrophizing

himself as he strode on under the trees, "you've done your dirty work well and wiped out all possibility of discovery. There'll be no one to say to-morrow that you were seen talking to the boy who delivered that letter; no one to say that you were seen skulking about in the neighborhood of the village; so, you're safer than such a dirty scoundrel deserves to be, for you've covered your tracks completely. Now, then, home to wash up the dishes and call on your master before you tumble into bed, but don't let me see your rascally face in the glass, Ned Twyford, or I believe I'll draw off and punch it!"CHAPTER XXX.
SPRINGING THE TRAP.It was the late afternoon of the next day—a day that had dawned in gloom and dreariness and was closing in fog and rain.Jemima Ann, curled up on the window seat, was breathlessly scanning the pages of an absorbingly interesting novel. Gypsy, at the other side of the room, was writing a long, newsy letter to Miss St. Quentin, and, save for the steady scratch of her pen, all was still, until a servant appeared and announced in a voice that was absolutely no voice at all in the ears of the entranced Jemima Ann:"A gentleman from Thetford Castle to see you, ma'am. Are you at home to-day?""Yes, certainly," responded Gypsy, laying down her pen. "Show the gentleman into the anteroom, Springer, and say that I will be down at once."Springer bowed and vanished, and, pausing a moment to lay aside her unfinished letter, Gypsy went out after her. She cast a glance at Jemima Ann as she left the room, but that entranced young person was deaf and blind to all but her book, and neither saw nor heard nor knew of anything beyond its absorbing pages.Now, the reason that Gypsy did not tell her maid to show the caller
into the drawing-room was simply that "a gentleman from Thetford
Castle" could not, by any possibility, mean Mr. Sleaford—for he
would have been announced by his title—and as it might possibly
be Henri Du Bois—who, perhaps, had not been sent to London
after all—she ordered the caller to be shown into the anteroom,
which, being an apartment seldom used, was just the place of all
others for a private conversation.But the caller was not Henri Du Bois; for as she entered the pretty little anteroom, with its tiny writing table, its few Chippendale chairs, and its one broad French window opening out upon the lawn, she saw seated before her the burly figure of Ned Twyford, with a big bouquet in his left hand and his right carried in a sling.The steward rose as she entered and tendered her the big bouquet."With his lordship's compliments, Miss Montressor," he said. "Henri having gone to London this morning, and not returned yet—although he ought to have done so hours ago, for he had little enough to do, there—my lord commissioned me to bring this bouquet to you and to ask if it would be convenient for him to call to-morrow afternoon.""Yes, certainly, if he will do me that honor," responded Gypsy. "But, pray rest yourself for a moment, Mr. Twyford, for you look ill, and you carry your hand in a sling, I see. Have you met with any accident?""Yes, ma'am. I had the misfortune to crush it by the fall of a
heavy box this morning, and that, too, at a time when I need it
most. But it isn't that which makes me look so poorly, Miss
Montressor. A big, hulking fellow like me could stand the pain of a
crushed hand well enough, but we're none of us too sturdy when it
comes to a bruised heart. I beg your pardon for mentioning my own
petty affairs, but—but— Oh, Miss Montressor, I'm only human,
after all, and being a servant doesn't rob me of the power of feeling.""Why, Mr. Twyford, what is the matter?""I—I am going away, ma'am—I've resigned my position at the castle, and I am going away to-morrow.""Going away? Where, and for what?""Back to Australia for one thing, and—and because of a woman's treachery for another.""A woman's treachery?""Yes, Miss Montressor. The love affairs of a man of my class can't
be interesting to a lady of your station; but a man's heart will overflow sometimes in spite of him. You see, ma'am, for over a year I've been keeping company with one of the lassies in the village, and Lord Desmond sort of made me his slave by promising to set me up in business when the lass and I were married, and I was looking forward to the time with a glad heart. But to-day I got a letter from Jennie—that's the girl's name, ma'am—and a crueller one never was penned. She's thrown me over, Miss Montressor—thrown me over without a word of warning and gone to Manchester to be married to a man in business there, and—and I can't stay here any longer—the very sight of the place has grown hateful to me, for there's not a rock or a tree in it that doesn't remind me of Jennie, and I feel as though I shall go out of my mind if I don't go away.""You poor fellow!" said Gypsy sympathetically, for the pallor of the man's face seemed to stamp with truth this false declaration—his story seemed to put his fealty to Matthew Sleaford in a new light."It is very cruel of the girl to treat you like that, and I doubt that she will ever be happy with her new love after her shameful betrayal of the old.""All the same, I hope that she will, for I love her too well to wish her any ill luck, no matter what she does," responded Ned. "I'd like her to know that I wish her well, I'd like her to know that I went away without any ill-feeling toward her, and that's what makes it hard for me to have my hand disabled now, for I'd like to write and tell her so! But how can I when I'm not able to hold a pen in my fingers, and have no means of putting my thoughts on paper? If only I could get some one to do it for me, would be

some consolation, but to go away without a word, to leave her to think that my heart was full of bitterness toward her when I left—ah, that's what wrings my soul.""Why, I will do it for you, if that will give you any comfort," said Gypsy, falling easily into the trap prepared for her."Oh, Miss Montressor! will you? Can a lady like you humble yourself to such an extent for a fellow like me?"For an answer Gypsy seated herself at the table and produced pen, ink, and paper. "Tell me what you wish to say, and I will set it down as you dictate," she said, as she dated the sheet. "Now, then, I am ready. Please proceed."And, after covering her with thanks, Twyford did proceed, and this was the letter he dictated."MY DEAR FRIEND:When you read these lines I shall have left this place, never to return—I shall have gone back to the land from which I came, and leagues of ocean will lie between us forever. I go, however, wishing you every good thing in life, and carrying with me the memory of what we were to each other in the old days, but never can be again.
"I know now that the hopes I built were false ones, never to be realized, that I have failed in every endeavor to become what I had hoped to become, and I go now to hide my disappointment and sorrow in a place known only to me. Try to forget me, and to believe that I love you still and will do so always. I shall pray for your happiness, but we will never meet again in this world. Farewell, and God bless you."Ever affectionately yours,
"EDWARD TWYFORD.".""There!" said Gypsy, as she passed the blotter over, it and handed the written sheet to him. "Now give me the name and address, and while you are reading

over the letter to see if all is correct I will address the envelope.""Oh, thank you, thank you," said Ned, as he took it from her hands. "The address is, 'Miss Jennie Jones, Manchester.'"Gypsy wrote it down as he gave it to her, and then rose from the table, but before she could say a word there came a tap upon the door and Springer entered with a note."For you, ma'am," she said. "A boy just left it at the door and said a gentleman gave it to him, and it was to be delivered immediately.""Miss Sylvia Montressor. In haste!" read Gypsy, glancing at the envelope."From whom can it be? I don't recognize the writing. It looks like a woman's hand, and yet Springer said that the messenger told her it was given to him by a gentleman. You will excuse me if I cut our interview short, Mr. Twyford, and ask the privilege of reading this letter without delay."There!" folding and slipping into the envelope the letter she had written for him, "I have done as you requested, and I wish for your sake I could have done more.""God bless you for what you have done," responded Twyford, taking up his hat and bowing himself out of the room. "Good-by, Miss Montressor, good-by, and thank you, ma'am."Then he was gone, and Gypsy, who had escorted him to the door, stood alone with the mysterious letter in her hand. All in a moment it dawned upon her from whom it might possibly be, and, slipping back into the anteroom, she closed the door, and tore off the envelope and drew forth a sheet of paper headed, "London," and bearing these words:"DEAR FRIEND:I send this by an acquaintance, who is on his way to Deephaven Royals, and who has

promised to see that it reaches your hands. When you receive it hesitate not a moment, but disguise yourself and come at once to London—to Desmond House, Cromwell Road, South Kensington—where I shall be awaiting you. Say nothing to anybody, but come at once, and let not even your dearest friend know when you leave or where you go. I have news for you—news that will make you swoon for very joy. Come, I implore you.Hastily and hopefully,
"MAGGIE TWYFORD."As she mastered the contents of the letter. Gypsy gave a suppressed cry, then crushing it in her hand, glanced at the clock and ran out of the room. One minute later the swinging French window was thrust sharply open and the figure of Ned Twyford slipped hurriedly in.With the swiftness of thought he drew out of his pocket the letter Gypsy had written at his dictation, removed it from its envelope, flattened it out, laid it upon the writing table, and, taking up the ink bottle, poured its contents over the signature and let them trickle thence to the floor."Upset in the haste of flight," he muttered, as he slipped out of
the window again, leaving the letter and the overturned ink bottle upon the table. "Her own handwriting, her own paper—no one can refute that testimony, and my game is won at last!"CHAPTER XXXI.
AFTER MANY DAYS.On the afternoon preceding the events detailed in the foregoing
chapter the steamer La Marguerite, which plies between Boulogne, on the French coast, and Folkestone, on the English one, glided into the latter harbor after a particularly rough passage across the channel, and brought with it among its seventy or eighty other passengers a gentleman and two ladies. In short, they were no other than Mr. Geoffrey Meredith, his sister, Mrs. Linda Detheredge, and her daughter, Ada, who were now visiting England after an extended tour of the Continent in quest of the two runaways—Gypsy and the supposed Mr. Hamilton Spread.Contrary to his original plan, Geoffrey Meredith—remembering the rumor that his misjudged wife had fled to the Continent with the father of the man whom he now sought as the abductor of his lost child—had at the last moment decided to begin his quest there, and, accordingly, had shipped from New York to Havre and journeyed thence to all the principal cities of Europe in the hope of tracing the runaways, and so it happened that, when Gypsy made her debut in London and subsequently carried the town by storm, neither her father nor her aunt and cousin were in England, and consequently the clew which might so easily have been picked up there was lost to them, and they were still as ignorant of her whereabouts as they had been in the beginning.But a thorough searching of the Continent having at last convinced Geoffrey Meredith that it was vain to hope to find the runaways there, he finally resolved to try the United Kingdom and, much to the chagrin of

Ada and her mother—who found the society of Paris, Berlin, and Monte Carlo and kindred Continental cities exactly to their taste—he forthwith journeyed back to the French coast and boarded the packet for England. Fate had dealt lightly with Miss Detheredge, for her delicate, golden loveliness was still unmarred, and she showed not so much as the faintest result of that desperate attack upon her life which Mr. Matthew Sleaford had made on that memorable night in the Newport road; and it had dealt lightly, too, with Mrs. Detheredge, for the lady seemed to be a good ten years younger, so much was she improved in health by her Continental traveling. But the months that had done so much for his sister and niece had been less kind to Geoffrey Meredith. Those weeks of fruitless searching for the runaways had broken him severely, had changed him in mind and heart and character, as well as in face; and in the bowed, sad-eyed, white-haired, spiritless man of to-day there was little of the dark, vindictive, passionate Geoffrey Meredith of other days.The wrecking of his life hope, the hope of having Gypsy to assist him in his inhuman scheme of revenge, had been the first thing to break him; then the loneliness of his life, the loss of his child—the one only thing in all the world that really belonged to him—the fruitless search for her and the gradually growing belief that the two men who had robbed him of all he had ever cared for upon earth would never be found, and that he should die, as he had lived, a wanderer and an exile—these had concluded the work of his undermining and made him what he had now become.Sometimes he thought that if he could only find Gypsy he could forgive her everything and take her to his heart, so lonely he was, so much he yearned for sympathy in his sorrow, so much he longed for tenderness and sweet companionship in his declining

years—for Mrs. Detheredge and Ada belonged to the world, not to
him, and rarely troubled him with their company when they could find
other more congenial.Balls, fêtes, and operas were more to their taste than
moping in meek attendance upon a man of sorrows, in whose heart the
fires of life seemed to have burned out and left nothing but dead
ashes and memory's withered leaves."I never saw a man so changed in all m life," Mrs. Detheredge had
said in confidence to her daughter one day at Paris. "It wouldn't
surprise me in the least if were to go melancholy mad and cut his
throat one of these days, my dear.""All the better for us, mamma, for we shall come in for his money,"
Ada had responded: "If I thought there was any likelihood of it, I
believe I should buy a half dozen razors and lay them about in
convenient places. But, then, it would only be money and labor
wasted. He's one of those men who never do what they are expected to
do, and who always disappoint people in the way they end."Meantime, unconscious of the bitter wishes that lay down deep in
the hearts of these two ingrates, Geoffrey Meredith had gone on
lavishing money upon them and taking them from city to city in a sort
of triumphal march, until he now stood in England, determined to
continue there a search which, on the Continent, had been productive
of nothing but bitterness and regret."Let us rest her for the day, Linda," he said to Mrs. Detheredge,
as he looked up the steep heights upon whose summit the hotels and
boarding houses of Folkestone were situated, and from whose canopied
windows a splendid view of the channel was obtainable. "I feel a bit
shaken up after our rough passage, my dear, and I think we shall all
feel better if we rest here for the night before continuing our
journey to London, don't you? I'll call a cab and tell the driver

to take us and our luggage to the nearest hotel, and after dinner I'll
telegraph to the Langham Hotel, in London, to have rooms reserved for
us, pending our arrival to-morrow."To this plan both Mrs. Detheredge and Ada were thoroughly
agreeable, for they were bad sailors, both of them, and their
hour-and-a-half's experience of the short "chop" of the channel had
made them quite willing to rest for a while, even in a locality which
not ultrafashionable, and boasted no "grand parade" and no gathering
of social stars to make it endurable, like hideous Brighton, with its
ugly, flat houses of gray and yellow brick, its wretched chain pier
and its parody of a beach.So the cab was called, the luggage was hoisted and tied fast on top
of it, and the journey up the steeps to the hotel begun forthwith.In the space of a few minutes the little party arrived at its
destination, a special luncheon was ordered, and a suite of rooms was
assigned to them.Luncheon being over, Mr. Meredith and the two ladies retired to
their separate apartments to indulge in a quiet nap until dinner time,
awakening much refreshed in the neighborhood of six o'clock, when it
occurred to Geoffrey Meredith to go down and send a telegram to the
Langham Hotel in London to engage their rooms there.This done, he sauntered back to the hotel, and, having nothing more
to do until dinner time, he strolled into the smoking room of the
hotel and lighted a cigar.A pile of papers—some daily, some weekly, some illustrated,
some not, but all of them old and out of date—lay upon a table
in the center of the room, and, picking up one of these, haphazard, he
retired to a corner and sat down to kill time until the dinner gong
sounded.Now, it so happened that the paper he had picked up was a copy of
The Sketch, an illustrated journal

devoted principally to matters theatrical and always lavishly embellished with pictures of stage celebrities and scenes from popular London plays.The paper was at least six weeks out of date, and its principal attraction was a number of scenes from the "Princess Mirza," then running at the Theater Royal, Haymarket, and likewise a photogravure portrait of the lady who had made it a stupendous success—Miss Sylvia Montressor.Mr. Meredith, turning listlessly the pages of the paper, came suddenly upon that portrait, and then, pale and trembling, burst into the presence of Mrs. Detheredge and Ada, with The Sketch in his hand."I have found her," he cried out excitedly, as he came clashing in. "Don't unstrap your luggage. I have found her at last, and we go to London to-night.""Found her?" gasped Mrs. Detheredge and Ada, in a breath. "Found whom?""Gypsy!" he answered wildly. "Fool that I was to waste time in searching the Continent, when all the while she was here, in England, and before the public gaze. Look! See!"—thrusting the paper into Mrs. Detheredge's hand, and with one lean forefinger pointing to the counterfeit presentment of Miss Sylvia Montressor's lovely face. "If that is not Gypsy Meredith, then this is not England, nor I a living man."As the eyes of the two women fell upon the picture they uttered one sharp, short gasp of surprise, of conviction, of startled recognition, and the next moment they were squabbling over it like a couple of hawks over a captured bird."Let me see it, mamma.""No; let me.""It is she!""Don't be a fool, it can't be, and yet—"Then their voices blent in one excited: "It is, it is, it is Gypsy!" to which Ada added in the next breath:"See! it says she is an American—it says it there!

—there! and to think of her going on the stage, and making a success of it! Oh, Uncle Geoffrey, that man must have deserted her, otherwise he would never let her do a thing like this, and in his native land, too.""I shall soon know that," he answered, his eyes kindling with something like their old revengeful fire and his features working convulsively. "Quick! put on your hats and wraps and let us be off! I have ascertained of the hotel clerk that there is a train leaving for London in twenty minutes' time, and we must catch it, no matter what happens.""But our luggage," bleated Ada and her mother despairingly."It can be sent on by the next train," he answered excitedly. "I'll settle the bill and pay the clerk to look after that, and to telegraph to the Langham that we want our rooms to-night instead of to-morrow, for I shall not know a moment's peace till I am in London, now that I know—oh, Gypsy, have I found you after all?"Then he rushed out of the room and down the stairs like a man pursued.Unwilling though they were to be dragged off to London in this unceremonious fashion, nothing was left for Mrs. Detheredge and Ada but to obey his commands and get ready at once; and so it came to pass that when the train for London steamed out of the Folkestone station and rushed away in the direction of the great metropolis, Mr. Geoffrey Meredith and his sister and his sister's daughter, locked up in a first-class compartment, went with it, and the exciting incidents of a night that was to stand out forever in their memories had at last begun.How it was to end no man could tell, and, least of all, Geoffrey Meredith.CHAPTER XXXII.
LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.Ordinarily the journey from Folkestone to London occupies but a trifle over two hours, but to-night the train was delayed at two or three stations on the way, with the result that it was quite half-past nine when it arrived at Charing Cross, and the darkness of night was beginning to fall over the Strand when Mr. Meredith and the two ladies emerged from the great terminus, and, stepping out into the courtyard of the Charing Cross Hotel, signaled a cab."To the Langham," said Mr. Meredith, as he assisted Mrs. Detheredge and Ada into the vehicle, and then stepped in after them. With a nod and a deferential, "Very good, sir, to the Langham," the cabby directed his horse forthwith.Cutting across the Strand into Trafalgar Square, he whirled into Charing Cross Road, bowled along it as far as Oxford Street, crossed that into Tottenham Court Road—intending to turn down Mortimer Street to Portland Place—and then, without hint or warning, abruptly stopped."What's the matter with you?" exclaimed impatiently Mr. Meredith, poking his head out of the window. "What are you dawdling here for when I am in haste to get to the hotel? Why don't you drive on?""Can't, sir," responded cabby, pointing with his whip to where a crowd had gathered in the roadway beside a heavily loaded van. "There's been an accident, I expect, from the look of things. But we won't be detained more than a minute or two, for here comes the ambulance, and a 'bobby' has taken the van and its driver in charge."There had been an accident, and a very serious one

at that; for questioning a bystander, cabby learned that a gentleman in crossing the road had been knocked down and run over by the van in question, and that his injuries were likely to prove fatal."Poor fellow!" muttered Mr. Meredith, as he heard this, and then he held his impatience in check; for at such a time one must respect the sufferings of others, no matter at what cost; so he resumed his seat and left the ladies to satisfy their morbid curiosity to the fullest by staring out of the window at the proceedings.In a few moments the ambulance arrived:"Oh, look!" said Ada, as she beheld the injured man lifted from the pavement. "Oh, look, mamma! What that man said was correct. He is a gentleman, and not one of the common herd after all. See?"—as the crowd swept back and the sufferer's white, pain-drawn face was exposed to view—"they are going to wheel him right past us on his way to the hospital, poor man."She was quite correct in that—only that he was not going to the hospital, as it chanced, for, knowing instinctively that his injuries were fatal and his hours numbered, the injured man had requested to he taken to his home. As she spoke, the officer in charge of the ambulance trundled it slowly forward. Onward it came, the crowd stringing off behind it like the tail of a kite, discussing the accident and the merits and demerits of the van driver's defense—onward and still onward until it reached the side of the cab and that white face, with its compressed lips, gleamed out like ivory through the dusk. And then, all of a sudden, there was a hoarse, excited cry that made Ada and Mrs. Detheredge start up in alarm. It was Geoffrey Meredith who uttered it.Instinctively as the ambulance drew near he had turned and glanced at it, his eyes had met the eyes of the man who lay there, and as he sprang from his

seat and roared out like an angry bull, an answering cry—a cry like the wail of a banshee—had broken from the sufferer's lips, and, uttering it, he had fainted."Geoffrey!" gasped Mrs. Detheredge, clutching her brother's arm. "Geoffrey, what is it? Good Heaven! do you know that man?""Know him!" he uttered, in a furious voice. "Does the Indian know the man who has despoiled him and whom he has tracked through pathless wilds to have blood for blood and life for life? It is he—he whom I have sought for years—he—the wrecker of my home, the murderer of my peace, the lover of my wife, and I have found him at last!""Merciful Heaven! Not Hamilton Spread the elder? Not the father of the man with whom Gypsy eloped?""Yes, it is he—he and no other!" he hoarsely answered. "Let me go out. I must follow him, I must hunt him to his lair, and then—open the door. Let me get out, and you, Linda, come with me. Let Ada go to the hotel alone and await our coming there, but you I must have with me or I shall lose control of myself. I shall forget my manhood and strike that dying wretch. Quick! Come! and you, Ada, drive on to the hotel alone.""No," she answered, catching at his sleeve as he alighted from the cab. "Let me go instead to the Haymarket Theater, Uncle Geoffrey; let
me satisfy myself that this Sylvia Montressor is Gypsy, and then I—""As you please," he broke in excitedly."Come, Linda, come."Then he was gone like a flash, and Ada was alone in the cab.In the crowded state of the streets no one noticed the two figures that glided on in the wake of the ambulance, and the sufferer gave no clew; for he was

still unconscious, and his white face gleamed like the face of the dead in the faint glow of the flickering gas lamps as the silent policeman trundled him patiently along.The accident had happened upon Tottenham Court Road, midway between, Oxford and Great Russell Streets, and, turning into this latter thoroughfare, the policeman and the ambulance moved along to the corner of Charlotte Street, and then, by easy stages, made their way to Bedford Square, where they finally came to a halt before one of the many ugly flat-brick houses which overlook the circular railed inclosure of grass and trees standing in the center of the square.A messenger having been sent on in advance to notify the occupants of the house, the door was thrown open, the now reviving sufferer was lifted and borne in, and, a moment later, a woman's anguished figure was seen to stagger past a window upon the ground floor, wringing its hands and beating its bosom in anguish and despair.Five minutes passed.The ambulance still stood at the curbstone, the gaping, morbid crowd still clustered about it, and the door of the building stood ajar.Now or never was Geoffrey Meredith's chance."Come!" he said, through his shut teeth; then, plucking Mrs. Detheredge by the sleeve, he hurried her across the street and passed with her through the open doorway into a dimly lighted hall. A dozen feet beyond the door by which they had entered another opened out into this hallway—the door of the room where they had taken him, and from which now floated the pain-blurred tones of a man's voice and the sobs and moans of an anguished woman.Meredith paused a moment as if to steel his heart against those wailing cries; then, with sudden resolution, he walked forward, thrust open the door, and stepped into the room.The light shed by a tall, bright lamp fell softly upon a couch in the corner, whereon the sufferer lay, and, kneeling beside him upon the floor, with her face buried in his bosom, and her frame shaking with sobs, crouched the figure of a woman with gray-streaked hair and limply hanging hands.In the dim half light Meredith did not see that there was another woman present—a woman huddled down in a corner and silently praying—he only saw the white face of the dying man and the dim shape of the figure kneeling beside him, and, with resolute step, he crossed the room and laid his hand upon her shoulder."Get up!" he said sternly, ignoring entirely the staring eyes and the faint, breathless cry the dying man gave at sight of him."Get up, if you have any shame left in you—get up and deny your guilt no more; for I, your husband, have run you to earth at last, Rosamond Meredith!"As he spoke the woman started to her feet with a low, indignant cry, and, turning, confronted him with the face of a stranger."Who are you that profanes a scene like this with words such as these?" she said.Then, catching the look the dying man flashed at her, she staggered back with a low, horrified cry, and as she came between Meredith and that other figure, crouching in the corner, she added with a shudder:"Oh, Hamilton, it is he, and you were right. I recognize him by his portrait, and, monster that he is, he has come here to embitter your last hours with his implacable hatred and his unpardonable calumnies.""Hush! Remember that we are not alone, Clarice," responded Hamilton Spread, "and remember that this man's condemnation must come to him from other lips than ours. Send the officer away, and then—"He turned to the silent, abashed, dumfounded man

beside him and transfixed him with a glance of stern reproof:"Geoffrey Meredith," he said faintly, "if you would not believe me in the long ago, you must believe me now that I am upon my deathbed, and must soon stand face to face with my Maker. A man dare not lie at such a time as this, and I tell you now, as I told you years ago, that Rosamond was true to you, Rosamond was as pure as the angels themselves, and you never were and never will be worthy of the love that was given you by the woman whose life your jealous madness wrecked in the miserable long ago.""True to me, was she?" repeated Meredith, with a sardonic laugh. "True to me, when she fled to the Continent with you?""Where else was she to go, when you had turned her out, had branded
her as a lost woman, and thrown her, friendless, penniless, childless, into the streets of London? It was there I found her, and I took her with me because, through me, she had lost all that she valued in the world and felt that I owed her some recompense for the evil I had innocently wrought.""And so you took her with you to everlasting disgrace?""Shame on you for those words, and for the ignoble thought that prompted them! I took her with me to this dear, good creature here—my sister, Clarice—who was then about to enter a nunnery in Rome, and who, for her sake, turned back to the world that she might be the friend and companion of one who needed her love and pity and devotion."This reply seemed to crush Meredith, and a flush of shame came over his haggard face."Oh, if I could only believe that," he said huskily. "If I could only be sure that you are telling the truth.""Oh, skeptic—oh, doubting Thomas!" sighed Spread, taking up an ivory crucifix that lay beside
him. "Listen, Meredith: Upon this crucifix I swear

to you that I have told you only the truth, and that the wife you put from you loved you and only you, and was true to you always."The flush of shame burned deeper upon Geoffrey Meredith's brow, and a sob forced its way through his lips as he hung his head in misery and remorse."Heaven forgive me," he said huskily. "Rosamond, forgive me; for I shall never be able to forgive myself.""Thank Heaven I have lived to hear you utter those words—they give me some hope for you in the world to come," said the dying man, as he kissed the crucifix and laid it on his breast. "You may know that it was in the interest of my church that I visited Rosamond so often in those old, sad days. My dearest hope was to convert her, and I swear to you that that alone was what we were discussing on the night you cast her adrift. So I took her to my sister—took her, broken in heart and spirit—and from that hour those two noble women lived together, doing good among the poor and outcast of Rome, where, to this day, their very names are worshiped. But through all Rosamond never lost faith in you, and used to pray nightly before the little shrine she had made for your picture that God would send you back to her, purified by suffering and convinced at last of her faithfulness and love. How much I owe to her you may know when I tell you that she it was who charged herself with the rearing and education of my little son, and that to the last hour of his life he regarded her as little less than a saint.""To the last hour of his life,'" repeated Meredith. "He is dead, then, and—oh, Spread, do you mot know how strangely Fate has entangled our two lives? Did he never tell you before he died, this son of yours, that he had married my daughter—married her secretly in America, last June, and that they fled from the country together?""You must be mad to even suggest so wild a thing," responded the dying man. "My son was never married, Meredith. He was studying for the priesthood at the time of his death, and it was his devotion to your misjudged wife that brought that death about. Determined to reconcile you and to convince you of how cruelly you had wronged her, he set sail for America last April to hunt you out and lead you back to Rosamond, but—he never lived to reach port. Injured by a fall down a hatchway, he died on shipboard three days before the vessel reached New York, and his body was embalmed and sent back to me to be laid by his dead mother's side. But, even so, his dead hand has accomplished its work and brought peace to me at last."The voice that spoke was the voice of the woman kneeling in the corner, and as it sounded she rose and stood forth in the light."Rosamond!" gasped Mrs. Detheredge, catching sight of her."Rosamond!" cried out Geoffrey Meredith, as he looked up and saw her. "Oh, Rosamond, oh, my wife! is it really you?""It is really I," she said, as she glided forward, her sweet, sad face gleaming pure as an angel's, and her soft eyes bright with tears. "Oh, Geoffrey, dead hands have led us together again after all these years of pain.""Dead hands, indeed," said Clarice Spread, looking down upon her brother as Rosamond Meredith slipped softly into her husband's arms and leaned her head against his breast. "Look! without a word of parting, without a single struggle, the weary pilgrim has gone home. Oh, Hamilton, Hamilton! 'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.' Amen!"And in the dead hush that had fallen, she sank down beside the couch and silently began to pray. With

bowed heads and hushed voices the three watchers by the dead stood and looked down upon him, amazed by the suddenness of the end, and awed by the presence of the Conqueror of conquerors, who had stolen in silently that none might hear, and had taken that which none may hold. And on the dead face there was no sign to show that the struggle to tell a great truth and see a great wrong righted had sapped his expiring strength and brought the end all too soon; for only a tender peace was there, and the smile of a man who had done his duty and gone out of all petty human strife and all darkened human ways forever.CHAPTER XXXIII.
CHIEFLY EPISTOLARY.The crowd having dispersed, the cab started again, but barely had it gone half a dozen yards before Ada called it to a halt again."I am not going to the hotel just yet," she explained, as cabby reined in and glanced down to learn her pleasure. "Do you know where the Theater Royal, Haymarket, is?""Yes'm, certainly, mum," responded the man promptly. "It's in Haymarket, between Pall Mall and Charles Street, mum.""Very well; then drive me there at once, and—Stop a moment, don't be in such hot haste. I wish to be taken to the stage door—the stage door, understand, and you're to wait for me until I come out.""Humph! Mashed on an actor and going to pay him a visit while the old uns are away." muttered cabby, in confidence to himself, as he brought the cab about and dashed off in the direction indicated."My word! but women are pretty much alike, all the world over, I expect!"And ruminating thus upon the frailty of the sex in general, he drove on to his destination, dashing down Oxford Street, to Regent Street, then through Picadilly Circus to Haymarket, and so to the theater. Meantime, Ada, in a state of great jubilation, communed with herself thus:"Bless that man, Spread, for getting hurt as he did and ridding me of Uncle Geoffrey just in the nick of time. If he were to meet Gypsy in his present low-spirited state he'd be fool enough to forgive her everything and take her to his bosom without more ado. And if he should do that it would be 'all up' with

mamma and me." She became slangy in her extremely high spirits. "Gypsy
would tell him at once of how we used to treat her, how we made a
drudge of her and made her sleep in the attic and eat with the servants and all that sort of thing, and he'd be so incensed with us that he'd pack us off without delay, and we'd never get a copper of his money from that time forth."He knows, of course, that we didn't treat her just as well as we ought, but he doesn't know just how badly we did use her when we were spending the money we held in trust for her, nor how we forbade her to call us 'cousin' or 'aunt' or to let anybody know that she was in any way related to us, and I don't mean that he ever shall. So long as he isn't reconciled to Gypsy, it's pretty certain that he'll leave his money to us when he dies, and if I can only see her before he does, I can easily persuade her that if she doesn't run away and hide herself he'll kill her when he meets her for having married Hamilton Spread, and taken up with the son of the man with whom her mother ran away."And with this amiable project in view she found herself in due time
before the stage door of the Haymarket Theater, and her hurried
journey at an end."Wait here for me—I shall not be long; she said to the cabman, as she alighted, and then, hurrying across the pavement to the mystic entrance, she stepped in and confronted the stage doorkeeper."I wish to see Miss Sylvia Montressor, my good man," she said, with quite a patronizing air, whereupon "my good man"—who was as crusty as stage doorkeepers invariably are—turned on his stool and, transfixing her with an eye of stone, answered sarcastically:"Oh, my! do you, now? Well, I expect you'll have to do a goodish bit of waiting, mum, before that wish is gratified, and, as there's signs of its going to rain

before another twelve hours, you're like to get a goodish bit wet into the bargain before you stands in Miss Montressor's presence. My eye! 'I wish to see Miss Montressor, my good man,' says you. 'Well, go see her, and be dashed to you,' says I, but I'm blowed if you'll see her here.""What do you mean?" returned Ada, amazed and indignant at this treatment. "Is not this the Theater Royal, Haymarket?""It is, if you goes by what the bills say, but it's only the Haymarket Theater if you goes by what it's called.""And is not Miss Sylvia Montressor playing here in a piece called 'The Princess Mirza?' I read that she was in the papers, and I don't think the papers are apt to lie.""All depends upon which one of 'em you read, and whether you buy new copies or old," responded Cerberus insolently. "Miss Sylvia Montressor was playing here, and in 'The Princess Mirza' at that, but that's a matter of a fortnight ago, and we've got a new piece on now, and a new company all together; so, if you just toddle out of that door with all your airs and graces, I'll be much obliged to you, mum, and no charge for the advice.""But I am Miss Montressor's cousin from America.""Can't help it if you're her aunt from Shanghai. She ain't here, and that's all there is about it.""Where, then, is she?""Not knowing, can't say.""But have you no idea?""None, but that outside parties aren't allowed in here, so out you go, and there's the end of it."And so it was, for the next moment Ada found herself unceremoniously bundled out upon the pavement, and the stage door shut in her face.Still, she was not to be defeated in this manner

and so, jumping into the cab again, she was driven round to the box office of the theater and made inquiries there.The statement that she was Miss Montressor's cousin and the undoubted evidence—as given by her accent—that she came from America, together with her appearance and her fashionable attire, procured for her inquiry a respect which it would not otherwise have obtained, considering the nature of it, but it procured for her very little else, since the young man in charge was only able to tell her that "he believed Miss Montressor was out of town somewhere, resting until 'The Princess Mirza' should be put on at some other theater.""But can't you tell me where she is?" persisted Ada. "Surely, some one must know.""Yes, I dare say that either Mr. Rawley or Miss St. Quentin does, but I don't know where either of them lives, and Miss St. Quentin isn't playing at present," responded the young man. "In fact"—this with a grin—"I think she is getting ready to be married to Mr. Rawley and isn't going on the boards again. Mr. Rawley is the author of 'The Princess Mirza,' and as it's soon to be put on again with the same cast as before, no doubt he knows where Miss Montressor is, and as he often drops in here I'll ask him, if you like, when he calls again.""Oh, I wish you would. When do you think he is likely to call?""Oh, perhaps to-morrow and perhaps not until the next day—it's not at all certain. Shall I send you the address when I learn it?""Yes, please, and to that name, at the Langham Hotel," responded Ada, handing in one of her cards, and, there being no longer any reason for her to remain, she returned to her cab and was driven to the Langham, whither the telegram engaging rooms had already preceded her.In a very bad frame of mind she sat down to wait for the return of her mother and Mr. Meredith, and, after keeping a lonely vigil until after midnight, was finally rewarded by a brief note—conveyed by messenger—containing these words:"Your mother and I will not return until tomorrow, so don't wait up
for us.Affectionately,
"UNCLE GEOFFREY."With a sniff of disgust, Miss Detheredge tore the note in two and forthwith went to bed.On the morrow she awoke at ten o'clock to find it raining, and a telegram awaiting her with the simple message:"We may be late in returning.Don't worry.
"G. M."And they were late in returning, for the long, dismal, rainy day wore away without bringing any sign of them, and the dismal evening began to settle down, gloomy, foggy, and hopelessly wet.But toward seven o'clock a letter arrived by post, and hastily tearing it open, she read these words:"Miss Sylvia Montressor is stopping at Deephaven Villa, Deephaven
Royals, Kent, as the guest of his lordship, the Marquis of Desmond,
whom it is rumored she is soon to marry.""About to marry—about to marry again, and this time to a marquis!" gasped Ada, as she read this letter, and then, crushing it into a ball, thoughtlessly cast it upon the floor. "Is she Gypsy? Can she be Gypsy? or is it all a mistake? Good Heaven! I must know! I must—I must—and if it is she, come what may, I must see that man and put a spoke in her wheel."With that she took out her writing case, and, sitting down, hastily
penned this note:"DEAR MOTHER:I have gone to a place called

Deephaven Royals, in the county of Kent. Don't worry if I am absent a
day or two. My business is important, and I will tell you all about it
when I return.Hastily,
ADA."Then, having sealed and addressed this note, she rang for a Bradshaw, looked up Deephaven Royals and how to reach it, and precisely twenty minutes later was seated in a cab and being rattled away toward Victoria Station.CHAPTER XXXIV.
WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT.The train which Ada Detheredge had set out to catch was billed to leave Victoria Station at half-past seven o'clock, but by one of those provoking examples of bad management an unexplained delay prevented its starting for upward of twenty minutes after the scheduled time, and the result was that it was almost eight o'clock before Miss Detheredge at length found herself speeding away from "the lights of London town."She was in a very bad humor, of course, over this provoking delay, for she knew that she had a good two hours' journey before her, the man in the booking office having informed her of that fact when she purchased her ticket. And the prospect of arriving in a strange town at ten o'clock at night, with the rain pouring in torrents and in all likelihood nobody about who could direct her to her destination, was by no means an exhilarating one.Still, she cherished a secret hope of finding a cab upon her arrival, and, remembering that theatrical people are not, as a rule, given to going to bed early, persuaded herself that even at ten o'clock it might still be possible to find Gypsy up and to obtain an audience with her.But, alas! Miss Detheredge knew nothing of the ways of the line. The train not only started late, but went on being later and later every foot of the way, till by the time it eventually drew up at Deephaven Royals it wanted but ten minutes to eleven o'clock, and Miss Detheredge, alighting, found herself looking out from a very dimly lighted station at a village that was as dark and devoid of life as a cemetery, and over

whose muddy streets and black, tomblike houses the rain was descending like a second deluge.Not a cab, not a conveyance of any sort was to be seen anywhere—only the black, sleeping village, the yawning darkness and the steady downpour of the drenching rain.To think of calling upon Gypsy at this hour and under these circumstances was wholly out of the question; and one glance at the silent, lightless, lifeless village convinced Miss Detheredge that she must put off her visit until morning.But where go until then? Back to London? Pooh! Not to be thought of; for inquiry of the surly station master elicited the fact that there was no returning train before seven o'clock next morning.Was there a hotel in the place? she asked. No, there was no hotel—in fact, nothing more pretentious than the Desmond Arms, which was a tavern, and no fit place for a lady to stop at.Then might she sit in the waiting room of the station and wait there until morning?That she mightn't! Where did she come from that she expected railway stations to remain open to the public all night? Why, such a thing wasn't done even in London, much less at a country village. When the last train came in the lights would be put out and the station locked up until morning. And the last train would be along in twenty or thirty minutes to a certainty, for it was three-quarters of an hour late already.Well, then, did he know of any place where she could find shelter for the night?No, he didn't. Hadn't ever heard of anybody in the village who took lodgers. There was no place but the tavern that did, and he was pretty sure that she wouldn't find it comfortable there. Still, she could try, if she liked, but if she should happen to find it full she mustn't blame him.It was Hobson's choice, you see, and so, having obtained the information how to reach the tavern, she went there, and, after rousing the landlady and discovering that she could be accommodated, she succeeded in being housed, and gladly put up with what she could get.Miss Detheredge slept until late next morning, and then made her way back through the muddy village street to the railway station, where she secured the one public conveyance the village boasted.In two minutes' time she had succeeded in hiring this incongruous "rig," and was splashing away up the muddy street in the direction of Deephaven Villa, which was in reality the jointure house of Desmond Castle.A brisk twenty minutes' drive through the mud brought them at length to Deephaven Villa, and, alighting, Miss Detheredge paid and dismissed the driver, then thrust open the gate of the villa and walked briskly up the garden path to the pretty vine-wreathed doorway. That the house was in a state of violent excitement she became aware as she neared it, for she could hear the sound of doors opening and shutting, of hasty footsteps scurrying here, there, and everywhere, and of some one sobbing as if in deep distress.If she had had the slightest chance of overhearing what was being said by the people within—particularly by the sobbing person who every now and then lifted her voice in what appeared to be an angry tirade—she would have stopped where she was and listened, but, fortunately, or unfortunately, the walls of the villa were thicker than those of English houses usually are, and consequently she could only distinguish the sound, not the sense, of the words that were spoken; and having no interest in listening to that sort of thing, seized the knocker and sent a vigorous peal echoing through the halls of the house.A screech from the sobbing voice greeted this demand for admission—a screech that positively had a ring of joy in it—then the same voice cried out loudly enough for the words to be understood. this time:"It's her—I know it's her, and Lord Desmond has fetched her back, as he said he would!"And at the same moment the knob turned, the door was wrenched violently inward and Miss Detheredge found herself face to face with a frowsy-headed, half-dressed young person, whose eyes were red with weeping and the state of whose attire clearly proved that she had not fully completed her morning's toilet, and never so much as washed her face or combed her hair from the hour when she got out of bed.It was Jemima Ann."Oh, my! It ain't her after all!" groaned she, falling back a step with a cry of disappointment and dismay, as she confronted the fashionably clad caller. "It's a sell—it's a fake, Springer, and it's neither him nor her, after all.""I wish to see Miss Sylvia Montressor," said the caller, complacently stepping over the threshold and into the hallway the moment the door was opened. "Have the goodness to tell her that a lady from America desires to speak with her, and upon business of vital importance."At this Jemima Ann's sobs burst out anew."You can't see her—I wish to Heaven that you could!" she cried out miserably. "I wish to Heaven she was here this minute. But she ain't! She ain't! She's broke my heart! She's gone away and broke my heart! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!""Gone away?" echoed Miss Detheredge, amazed and annoyed at this unforeseen predicament. "Gone where?""I dunno! I dunno! I wish to Heaven I did!" howled Jemima Ann. "I'd go after her in double-

quick time, I would, and you can bet your bottom dollar on that.""But when did she go? This morning?""No; last night—leastwise it must have been then, for her bed ain't never been slept in. But the letter she left for me didn't say nothin' about when she went—only that she was going, and now she's gone! She's gone! and I never found it out until I went into her room to wake her this mornin'. She's gone, and she ain't never coming back agin', her letter says, and if it warn't her own writing and on her own note paper, I'd say it was a forgery, I would, a forgery and a swindle, and that there steward feller at the castle was at the bottom of it—for it ain't like her to run off like this and leave me with just them cold words of partin' when I loved her so, and she knowed that I'd lay down my life for her if she only said the words. But it is her writin'—I can't be fooled in that."For a time Miss Detheredge made no reply. This unexpected change in the program completely upset all her plans, and, for a moment or two, she let Jemima Ann sob out her sorrow uninterrupted."Gone," she said to herself, in a troubled voice, "gone away unexpectedly and without telling any one of her destination. Good Heaven! can she have heard that her father is in England? Can she have learned how his heart has softened toward her of late, and has she gone to seek him?"The bare thought of such a distasteful possibility completely unnerved her.The door of the drawing-room was standing open, and, without so much as asking permission or even excusing herself for the liberty she took, she groped her way in and sank feebly down upon a chair."My Heaven! Have I made a fool of myself by coming here, and have I allowed her to meet her father after all, when, by remaining where I was, I

might, perhaps, have prevented it?" she groaningly asked herself, as she shut her teeth hard, and, in her wrath and chagrin, dug her nails deeply into the palms of her hands.For a moment she sat there asking herself these unanswerable questions and trying to think what she was to do next; then she suddenly beckoned Jemima Ann to her, and, taking out her purse, drew forth a bright, golden half sovereign."If you answer my questions correctly, little girl, you shall have that for your trouble," she said, laying it upon the edge of a small fancy table beside her. "Now, then, tell me all you know about this.""I don't want your money," said Jemima Ann, disdainfully. "I only wants Miss Sylvia, and"—breaking down again—"I don't know how I'm going to find her after this. I'll tell yer all I kin tell yer, if, as you say, you're a friend o' her'n, but I don't want no pay fur doin' it.""Well, then, when did you see your mistress last?""Yesterday—round about seven o'clock in the evenin'. She come into the room where I was a readin', and she says to me, says she:"'Jemima Ann, take your book up into your own room and read it there, won't you? I've got an awful headache come on me all of a sudden; so I'm going to draw the blinds and go right straight to bed.'"'Land sakes!' says I, 'not at this hour? Why, it ain't dark yit, Miss Sylvia.'"Then I looked up at her, and I see that she was dreadful pale, and
I knowed then that she was feelin' bad, and that she couldn't do
nothin' better than to go to bed, like she said. So I gets out her
nightdress and turns down the bed and puts the o-jy-c'lone where she
could reach it without gittin' up; then I tells her that I hopes
she'll be better in the mornin' and so takes up my book and starts to go."'Shall I come down after a time and see how

you're gettin' on, and if you need anything?' I says, just as I was goin'."'No,' she says. 'I want a good long rest, and I don't want to be disturbed, so please don't let anybody come near this room till I ring.'"'All right,' says I. So I wishes her good night, and upstairs I goes to my own room. I never leaves it again 'ceptin' to go down to supper at nine o'clock, when I tells the servants that Miss Sylvia has gone to bed ill and they're to keep away from her room and make as little noise as possible when they goes by the door of it."After that I goes back to my own bedroom and takes up my book agin'. I reads on till I finished it; then I undresses and goes to bed, it bein' after eleven o'clock, and I drops right off to sleep and never knows nothin' more till eight o'clock this mornin'. While I was a-dressin' I wondered to myself if Miss Sylvia is better, and I forgits all about her tellin' me not to go near her till she rings, it bein' my habit always to go in each mornin' and see if she's ready for her cup o' chocolate. So down I runs to her room, and the first thing I see is her bed not been slept in, the clothes she wore when I left her last night a-lyin' on a chair, and no sign of her anywhere about."I gits frightened and runs to her bathroom—she wasn't there; then I looks into her dressin' room and under the bed and into all the cupboards, and she wasn't there nuther; then I rushes out with a yell—I was so frightened!—and goes scuttling down the stairs, and right on the very first landin' I runs smack into Springer a-comin' upstairs with a letter in her hand and lookin' as white and frightened as if she'd seen a ghost."I shouts out to her that I can't find Miss Sylvia; that I've been to her room and she ain't there, and the bed's never been slept in; then Springer, she busts out cryin' and puts the letter in my hands and says:"It's for you, miss. I just found it in the ante-room, and, oh, she's gone—Miss Montressor's gone And left nuthin' but this behind her.'
"Then I takes up the letter and reads it and sees at once that it is for me, cause it was addressed to 'My Dear Little Friend,' and, although the name of the person as wrote it was blotted out—on account of the ink bottle bein' upset and let to run all over the carpet, as Springer told me—I recognizes Miss Sylvia's writin' the minute I sees it, and I knows the letter to be from her."In a few words she says good-by to me, and tells me she is gone, never to come back, and then, all of a sudden everything grows dark around me and bang down I goes on the floor and don't know another thing till I opened my eyes and finds Springer a-chuckin' water over me and cook and the coachman a-pullin' feathers out of a duster and burnin' 'em under my nose."Quick as I kin I sends the coachman flyin' over to Thetford Castle with the news, and a little bit later up gallops Lord Desmond lookin' white as a dead man, and shakin' all over as he gets off his horse and comes rushin' up the steps. I tells him all I knows just as I'm tellin' it now to you—I shows him the letter and the place where it was found; then off he rushes ag'in, sayin' he'll find her and know the meanin' of this mad step of hers, if it's in the power of man to do it, and so—"A sudden clatter of hoofs breaks in upon the words.Jemima Ann stops short in her narrative, rushes to the window and peers breathlessly through the slats of the Venetian blinds."It's him!" she cries out, as she faces about breathlessly and rushes out of the room. "It's Lord Desmond come back, and, let's hope, with news."Then she flings open the outer door suddenly, and,

as the usurper comes striding in, calls out in a wild, excited way:"Oh, my lord! Oh, my lord! have you found out anything about her? There's a lady here to see her—a lady all the way from America—and, oh, have you found out anything at all?""Not a thing—not a trace," he answers, in a voice that makes Ada Detheredge start up from her chair and stand breathless and rigid as a statue. "I have inquired everywhere, but without success. Nobody has seen her, nobody knows what has become of her, and she has vanished. At the railway I have learned that a woman left for London upon the train last night, but the description given of her by the station master differs so widely from that of Miss Montressor that the possibility of there being any connection between them was so manifestly absurd I asked no more about her. I learned, however, that another strange woman, a lady apparently, arrived from London at eleven o'clock last night; that she went to the Desmond Arms, and put up there, and, after paying her bill this morning, left without giving her name or any clew to her identity. But something tells me that that woman has something to do with the mystery, and if I can only find her—"He was never permitted to finish the sentence, for at that moment the voice of Miss Detheredge—who had stolen to the drawing-room and peered cautiously through the crack—broke suddenly in upon him, saying, as the owner of it stepped out into the hallway and confronted him:"That woman is here, Lord Desmond, and, if you have a memory for old friends, I think you will recognize her."He did recognize her, and went white as death as his eyes met hers."Ada!" he gasped, clutching at the door for support under the violence of the shock."The very same, my dear Matthew," she answered, with smiling coolness. "I have come a long way to see you and your latest ideal. Shall we sit down here and talk, or do you prefer that we should stroll over to Thetford Castle together and celebrate our happy reunion there?"CHAPTER XXXV.
AT THE TOWN HOUSE.All that Jemima Ann had told in reference to Gypsy's movements last night was in strict accordance with the forged letter purporting to come from "Monsieur Henri Du Bois." She went hastily up the stairs to her own room after dismissing Ned Twyford, and then and there disposed of Jemima Ann in the manner related by that young person in the foregoing chapter. Once left to herself, she locked the door, and, sitting down, took out the valet's letter and read it over again—slowly and carefully—from beginning to end."What can this mysterious 'good news' be that Maggie, poor dear, is so anxious to tell me that she summons me to London to-night and bids me preserve the most inviolable secrecy regarding the journey?" she muttered, as she refolded the letter and again thrust it into her pocket. "Can it be possible she has found that which she seeks so diligently? She said that if she failed to find it at the castle she would employ the first opportunity to enter the town house of the Desmonds and search for it there in the rooms which Matthew Sleaford occupied in the days when he was only a poor dependent; and she now summons me to the town house of the Desmonds."Oh, can it be that she has found what she seeks after all, and that she may yet live to bless the chance which led her rascally brother to suggest to the marquis that she be sent to London in his stead to investigate that servant's reference?"She sat a moment puzzling her brains over that query and drumming a thoughtful tattoo upon the carpet with the toe of her slipper."No," she said, after a pause. "It can't be that—

it must be something greater than that—something of vital
importance to me personally, otherwise she would never have summoned
me to her so urgently. Her calling me to her, proves that what she has
discovered has something to do with my affairs, and my presence at
Desmond House to-night is an absolute necessity. Very well, then; I
must go, and in disguise, as she is careful enough to bid me. I can
easily catch the latest train, but as I have to dress and then walk to
the station I had better begin preparing myself for the journey at
once. Ah, bless this rain! If it were not for that it would still be
quite light at this hour, but the storm clouds have entirely obscured
the heavens, and I have now nothing to fear."How lucky that I thought to tell Jemima Ann not to let anybody come to my rooms until I rang; for I may not be able to return until broad daylight, and the poor child would be worried half to death if she were to come in and not find me here. Dear little Jemima Ann, I wish I had thought to ask Maggie for permission to confide her unhappy story to her; but I promised to say nothing to any living soul, and by that promise I must abide, even in the case of Jemima Ann. However, I will ask Maggie when I see her to-night to let me tell my loyal little friend as soon as I return, and then there will never be any necessity for keeping Jemima Ann in the dark about Lord Matthew Desmond's valet, and the understanding which exists between us."Saying this, she hastily removed the light house dress she wore and laid it upon a chair, and forthwith proceeded to array herself for her journey.Replacing her slippers with a pair of stout walking shoes, she next
took from her trunk the shabby garments which, at the time of her
meeting with Miss St. Quentin, represented her entire wardrobe, and
hastily donned them, and, producing from the same source her
theatrical "make-up box," proceeded to darken her

complexion, and, by a few skillful lines, to alter the entire expression of her face.Taking down her abundant hair, she parted it exactly in the middle, and then drew it down over the tops of her ears in two straight bands, and twisted it up into a tight, hard knot at the back of her head, after which she powdered it until it presented an iron-gray appearance and surmounted the whole with a sort of poke bonnet, made by turning in the back part of the brim and tearing off the trimming of a black straw garden hat.Over this she tied her oldest and thickest veil, which, nevertheless, was still thin enough for her face to be seen through it, then, tucking up her skirt and folding over her shoulders a red felt table cover—from which she tore the fringe and thereby converted into a respectable apology for a shawl—she stood at length ready for her journey.Putting a couple of sovereigns and some loose silver into her pocket and supplying herself with a latchkey against the hour of her return, she put out the lights, unlocked the door of her room, and stole carefully down to the lower hall, taking, as she passed the servants' staircase, a dropsical old black cotton umbrella belonging to the cook.As noiselessly as any burglar, she opened and closed the lower door and crept down the garden path to the gate, and two minutes later, with umbrella unfurled and the rain pouring down about her in torrents, away she went splashing through the mud and taking the direction to the railway station.She almost missed her train, for she was obliged to take a
roundabout course in order to avoid meeting anybody in the main street
of the village, and it was after eight when she reached the station and boarded the train.Curled up in the corner of a third-class compartment, with a frowsy woman, a drunken man, and a

squalling infant for traveling companions, Gypsy went on her way, and
precisely one hour later she and Miss Detheredge passed each other on
the line, and for one brief instant were almost within arm's reach.Alighting under the arching roof of the great London station, Gypsy went down the long platform and thence out into the inclosure beyond where the omnibuses and the cabs stand, and there accosted a policeman.She knew that Desmond House was on Cromwell Road, in the South Kensington quarter of London, but she did not know. how to reach that spot from this part; and so affecting an Irish brogue, the better to conceal her real personality, addressed herself to the bobby."Will ye be afther tellin' me how I'll be gettin' to Cromwell Road the easiest way?" said she; whereupon "bobby," thinking she hadn't a sixpence in her pocket, and hoping to raise a laugh among the bystanders, responded promptly:"Cab it!" And to his utter and complete surprise:"Thank ye!" said Gypsy, and walked off to the nearest cab and engaged it on the spot.That the town house of the Desmonds was in the neighborhood of Queen's Gate she had often heard Matthew Sleaford say, and so "to Queen's Gate and Cromwell Road," was the address she gave the cabby as she furled her umbrella, stepped into the hansom, and closed the swinging doors, and, at half an hour's time, at Queen's Gate and Cromwell Road she stood.The cabman brought the long drive to an end, collected his half crown, and was upon the point of going on his way rejoicing, when:"Whist!" said Gypsy, holding up her hand. "Do ye mind thot a body I met at Ramsgate last week towld me herself was cook at Desmond House, and give me an invite to call on her if ever I was up this way; so

would ye be after tellin' me where Desmond House is, that I may be doin' that same to-morrow?""That's it—house with the yellow pillars, over there," responded the cabby, pointing with his whip. "But I'm thinking the party you mention was making game of you, ma'am, for there aren't no cook there. The house has been empty this year past, with nobody in it but a stone-deaf caretaker, who wouldn't hear if you pulled it down over his ears. Good night!""Good night!" responded Gypsy, making as if to go up Queen's Gate as he drove off; but the moment he was out of sight she turned abruptly and hurried back to Cromwell Road.In another moment she had crossed it and was standing before the house with the yellow pillars."I shall soon know now what Maggie wants of me—what good news she has to tell," she muttered, as she looked up at the great house in which not a ray of light was visible from top to bottom; then, running up the low steps, she seized the ponderous knocker and rapped for admittance.CHAPTER XXXVI.
IN THE SNARE.In the utter stillness and the utter emptiness of the house, the peal of the knocker sounded abnormally loud, and, as her hand dropped from it, it seemed to her that she could hear its echoes pealing off like distant thunder. Half terrified by the awful din she had raised, she shrank back in the darkness and leaned, tremblingly, against the yellow pillars.Who would answer her summons, she wondered? The deaf old caretaker, of whom the cabman had spoken? It seemed to her loud enough to startle even him. Or would Maggie Twyford herself respond to it?She was not kept long in doubt. The person was waiting to answer her summons; for there came a sound of bolts being drawn, of a key turning in a rusty lock, and then the door swung quickly inward.In the darkness of the street—and the denser darkness of the great hallway that yawned beyond the open door, Gypsy could distinguish absolutely nothing that bore any resemblance to a human shape.But a human shape was there, that was certain; for out of the gloom a whispered voice spoke to her, saying:"Come in, come in; you are very late, miss, and Monsieur Du Bois was afraid that you didn't intend to come."So, then, it was the deaf old caretaker, after all! Gypsy thought as she heard these words.But she did not reply to them in any way.Having heard of the man's infirmity, she felt that it would be useless to do so, and, therefore, held her peace as she stepped over the threshold and entered the pitch-dark hall.As she did so, she was conscious—although she

could see nothing—of some living presence beside her, for she could hear the sound of breathing close to her elbow, could feel some one pass by her, and then the door was swiftly but softly closed, and the sight of the black street, with its few paltry gas lamps, vanished as if by magic, and left her shut in in utter gloom.She heard the bolt slide back into the sockets, the key turn again in the lock, then the breathing human presence came close to her again, and she felt a hand groping along her sleeve.There was something so uncanny in that silent touch, and in that utter darkness and stillness, that she involuntarily shrank back, and a cold tremor went zigzagging up and down her spine."Where is your hand?" queried the whispered voice of her companion. "The gas is all shut off from the house, and the only candles we have are upstairs, where Monsieur Du Bois is. Give me your hand, and let me lead you—you'll stumble and fall if you don't."He found it even as he asked for it, and Gypsy felt the touch of cold fingers gliding down her wrist and slipping softly into the soft, warm clasp of hers."That's it; now we're all right," said the whispered voice. "Come this way, and, mind you, don't stumble when we reach the stairs. Better put your other hand out and feel your way along the hall. Come along, now, come along. This way—this way, and, mind you, don't slip. Easy, easy! There! Now we are all right. Here's the foot of the staircase, and now up we go."Gypsy obeyed.Still clinging to the cold hand that clasped her own, up and up she went in her unseen guide's wake—up and up, until they reached a landing above, and then, all of a sudden, down through the darkness rolled a sound that froze her very blood."What's that?" she gasped. shuddering closer to her

companion. "It was like the groaning of some one in agony, and— Oh, what a fool I am not to remember that the man is stone-deaf, and knows not what I say?" However, if he didn't, the sudden trembling which seized upon him and communicated itself to her through the touch of his ice-cold hand was odd to say the least, and this thought had suddenly flashed through Gypsy's mind, when she felt herself abruptly whisked across the landing and drawn into a heavily carpeted room, the door of which her unseen guide closed behind them. Like a flash, his hand shook off the nervous clasp of hers, and through the deep darkness her startled ears caught the sound of a key turning in a lock."What are you doing? What is the meaning of this?" she cried out, with a burst of sudden alarm, forgetting, in her excitement, the deafness of the man. "Why have you brought me to this room? Where is Henri Du Bois? And—and what do you mean by locking that door?"She was answered by a sudden flash of light, as the man struck a match and touched it to a gas jet close beside him. The sudden blaze of light dazzled her for an instant, but her eyes, accustoming themselves to it, glanced toward her guide, and saw—Ned Twyford!"Merciful Heaven! You?" she gasped, reeling back."Even I, Miss Montressor," he answered. "The trap was well baited, was it not? And it has been sprung to perfection. You may wash off that disfiguring paint as quickly as you like, and make your-self comfortable, for here you are going to remain until it suits my convenience to set you free.""A prisoner?""Yes, a prisoner, Miss Montressor, and a close prisoner, at that. It is I who have lured you here, and it
is I who intend to keep you here.""Why?""I do not choose to answer that, for I am a man who lets no one into his secrets.""But Henri Du Bois—ah, where is he?""At Desmond Castle, where she has been all along! You see, I know the truth about 'Monsieur Henri Du Bois, Miss Montressor; but my unworthy sister and I don't grind our axes in the same way. You see, too, that I know your little game, and I'm not so willing as Maggie to take a hand in it. It was I who wrote the letter that brought you here to-night, and it is I who will keep you here. Oh, you may shriek until doomsday, for all the good it will do you, for the only other person in the house is the caretaker, and he is as deaf as a post—so deaf that he would not hear a cannon if it were fired off beside him.""But others may hear—others may hear!" panted. Gypsy. "I
will shriek until the passers-by hear me, and acquaint the police.""The police are already acquainted," he made answer. "As the Marquis of Desmond's steward, I notified them this morning that my master intended to house an insane female relative here for a few weeks pending her removal to a Continental asylum, so you need hope for no assistance from them.""But my friends!" cried out Gypsy wildly. "They will miss me, they will trace me.""Your pardon, but you yourself have forbidden them, in the letter you wrote for me this afternoon, and which, with the signature blotted out, lies now on your writing table in the anteroom at Deephaven Villa. In that letter you have stated that you are voluntarily going away, and you have voluntarily gone away. You left them in secret; you came here in disguise, and so closed every door behind you in the most methodical way. You are my prisoner, Miss Montressor, and my prisoner you will remain until it suits me to set you free!"CHAPTER XXXVII.
"FAST BIND, FAST FIND!""Speak, Matthew!" went on Ada Detheredge, with smiling self-possession, as Sleaford, overcome with surprise and despair, leaned heavily against the door-way, and, pale, breathless, silent, stared at her with dilated eyes. "Shall we sit down here in Miss Sylvia Montressor's house and talk, dear friend, or do you prefer that we shall stroll over to Thetford Castle together and celebrate our happy reunion there? I have traveled so far to see you, and have so much to say about old times, Matthew, that it will only be polite to grant me an audience at once, you know."The veiled threat that lay behind these calmly spoken words and shone out from her blue eyes, was not lost upon Sleaford—although it was lost upon Jemima Ann—and, pulling himself together with an effort, he smiled a ghastly smile, and held out his hand to his wife. Whatever his real feelings might be, he realized that in the presence of a third party he must do all he could to mask them and to hold his wrath and chagrin in check, until he and this hated woman were alone together."Pardon my agitation, my dear Ada, and let my surprise at seeing you plead for my extraordinary conduct," he said, flashing an apprehensive look at Jemima Ann, to see how she took this extraordinary affair."It is not every day one is called upon to receive visits, and from the other world, as it were, and I was naturally very much startled. I had heard that you were dead, and you can understand from that my otherwise inexplicable emotion.""Yes," said Ada serenely, as she took his proffered hand, and did not wince even though it's strong grasp

crushed her fingers until the knuckles cracked. "I believe that some such silly report was in circulation, but
there was never any truth in it, you see, my dear Matthew; for women endowed with my vitality do not succumb easily, and do not pain their friends nor gratify their enemies by 'shuffling off this mortal coil' when they have still something to live for.""So I perceive," he answered, squeezing harder her soft, cool hand, and wishing the while that it was her life pulse he held, that he might crush it. "I think you know—I am sure you must know—how glad it makes me to discover that you are still living, and that you have found your way to me again, even though it be in a sorrowful hour, and when one in whom I am deeply interested has mysteriously disappeared.""Yes, I know of that, and—I know her," responded Miss
Detheredge, signaling him, by a warning flash of her eyes, to cease
his torture of her hand. "I knew Miss Montressor in America—did
she never tell you of it?—and I came here to-day to see her, as well as you.""You knew Sylvia—knew her in America?" he gasped, growing pale again as he secretly wondered if she knew, too, of Sylvia Montressor's friend—the woman who was Lord Philip Desmond's wife. "No, no; she never told me of that; she never mentioned your name even indirectly and— Let us go to the castle, let us go there at once and not desecrate this house of mourning by talking here of the sweet and joyful past. If we go out by the garden gate it will take us to a shadowed road that leads directly to the castle, and it is but a short walk then. Jemima Ann"—turning to that forlorn young person, who all the while had been standing silent and viewing this pretty comedy with a puzzled expression upon her tear-stained face—"you will show us the way to the door that leads into the garden, will you not, my dear?""Yes," said Jemima Ann, nodding her frowsy head. "But, oh, you ain't goin' to give up the search for Miss Sylvia like this, are you, Lord Desmond? You ain't going to give over tryin' to find her just because you've met an old friend, are you?""No," he said, in reply. "I'll never give up the search, Jemima Ann—never until she's found. I'll offer rewards, I'll notify the police, if necessary, and I'll get to the bottom of this mystery if it is in the power of mortal man to do it. But I've done all that I can do for to-day, my child, and even you must realize that.""I don't, then!" blurted out Jemima Ann. "Where's that steward o' yourn? Why ain't you questioned him? Why ain't you had him took up and made to prove if he's guilty or innocent?""What? Ned Twyford?""Yes, Ned Twyford! That's his name—I remember it now. I tell you he's at the bottom of all this; I tell you that if any man knows what's become of Miss Sylvia, he knows, and you'll never find out till you come down on him.""Oh, what nonsense!""It ain't nonsense, neither—it's truth. If she's been stole away—as I believe she has, in spite of the note she left—I tell you that that man done it. I never told nobody before, but I seen him loafin' round here and spyin' on Miss Sylvia, and I say again that, if she's been took away, that there Ned Twyford took her, and I'll stand by what I say till the last.""Faugh! What drivel—what madness!" responded Sleaford, with a deriding laugh. "Ned Twyford is devotion itself to my interest, and he would harm nothing that is sacred in his master's eyes. You are dreaming, Jemima Ann, and dreaming idly; for if any band has been raised against your mistress, I know—and am positive—that it is not the hand of faithful Ned Twyford! But, come, now, show us to the gar-

den door, my child, for I am in haste to escort this lady to the castle."Without a word, Jemima Ann led them down the passage to a little
door, which gave access to the grounds of the villa, and in another
moment Sleaford was stalking up the path which led to the little gate
opening out into the wooded road, where Ned Twyford had so
successfully played the spy upon Monsieur Henri Dubois and Gypsy.With audacious serenity, Miss Detheredge kept pace with him as he strode along, but not until they were far beyond the eyes and ears of Jemima Ann did they venture to exchange so much as a single word."And so you escaped death, after all, you Jezabel!" said Sleaford, spluttering out a furious oath, as they went down the wooded road in the green dusk of the overarching trees. "I felt sure that I had done for you, but the devil, who never fails to look after his own, took care of you, it seems, and you escaped death, and have tracked me here.""Quite true," responded Ada, with amazing coolness. "I did escape death, and I have tracked you here, my estimable husband! No, you needn't trouble yourself to swear, for oaths won't mend matters in the slightest, and you needn't stop walking, either, for we can talk quite as well while we are journeying onward, and, besides, I am very eager to get a glimpse of this mysterious 'castle' over which it seems my liege lord reigns without me! So we will continue walking, if you please, for I have a fancy to beard the lion in his den, instead of trifling with him out here in the shadow of the trees.""You jade!" he said, through his shut teeth, and with a look of murderous hate inflaming his face and eyes. "I wonder you are not afraid to beard me like this—I wonder you are not afraid to trust yourself alone with me, after what you know of me and what you have done.""Afraid!" repeated his wife, with a mocking laugh and a
contemptuous shrug of her shoulders. "Why should I be afraid? You
daren't harm me, and—you know it. 'Once bitten, twice shy,'
runs the old adage, and do you think that after my experience with you in the moonlit road at Newport I have been fool enough to come here in quest of you without first warning my friends of my destination and telling them who it was I went out to meet?"She took refuge in a lie, for she did not intend to let him know that her meeting with him was a purely accidental one, and that when she came to Deephaven Royals she had not the slightest idea in the world of encountering him, or, indeed, that he was upon this side of the Atlantic."No, I am not afraid of you," she went on glibly. "Time was when I might have been, but that time is not now; for if my mother and uncle—both of whom are here in England with me—do not receive a telegraphic dispatch from me before six o'clock to-night they will inquire for me at the house we have just left, and will learn from that extraordinary 'Jemima Ann' that I left in company with 'Lord Desmond,' to visit 'Lord Desmond's charming castle,' and then—well, then, it will be exceedingly uncomfortable for that same 'Lord Desmond' if they fail to find me there."If Sleaford had been himself—if this unexpected crisis had
not blunted his wits and made him deaf and blind to all but the
horrible predicament he now found himself in—he must have
detected the lie she was telling, must have noticed the sneering
emphasis she put upon the words 'Lord Desmond' and 'the castle' every
time she uttered them, and must have known from that that she regarded
his title as a fiction, and his castle a myth, and that so regarding them, it was not possible she had taken the precautions stated.But he did not notice these things, and so, in his

blindness, let slip the last chance of ridding himself of her by completing the work he had only half done that night at Newport."So you thought me dead, did you?" went on Miss Detheredge jeeringly. "You thought you were done forever with the woman you trapped into a marriage with you that summer in France? Well, now, aren't you sorry you only thought so? What a pity it was for you, my estimable husband—that your knife wasn't longer and your aim surer that night in the Newport road, and what a pity—what a thousand pities—for the success of your future plans that I should have lived to hunt you down and discover your latest imposture."In Sleaford's eyes, his "latest imposture" could mean nothing but
his usurping of Lord Philip Desmond's title and position, and the
thought that she should have discovered anything about that made him pale with sudden terror."What do you mean by my 'latest imposture'?" he demanded hoarsely. "How could you have learned? Who could have told you of such a thing as that?"She looked at him, and laughed."What a poor opinion you must have of a woman's natural powers of discernment to ask me such a question as that," she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Where did I learn? Who told me? Bah! do you think that, knowing you, it is necessary for any one to tell me that you are at your old game again—your stale old game of pretending to be an English lord, with a vast estate, a noble pedigree, and a rent roll as long as one's arm? How did I learn, indeed! Do you think I have forgotten that it was under the assumed title of the Viscount Coralth that you tricked me into marriage with you all those years ago? And do you think, knowing that and knowing, too, that you are only Matthew Sleaford, only a well-connected scoundrel, a gambler, a blackleg, an escaped galley

slave—do you think, I say, that, knowing these things, I am
fool enough not to understand that the title you are sporting to-day
is as great a sham as the one you assumed when you made a dupe of me? Do I need to be told, think you, that the man who, in spite of his pretensions in those far-off days, was only Mr. Matthew Sleaford, is so still?"The impostor caught his breath sharply, and an expression of relief came over his face; for he realized now that she did not know of his latest crime, and that, in that respect, at least, he had nothing to fear from her vindictiveness and malice."For all you think yourself so clever, and for all you pride
yourself so much upon your 'woman's wit,' you are still only a fool!" he said sneeringly. "I wonder that the wit of which you speak so boastingly did not tell you that if it was possible for me to pose in France as an English nobleman of ancient title and with landed estates, it is not possible for me to do the same thing in England without the fraud being discovered at once by any one who chose to consult the pages of either Burke or Debrett."Miss Detheredge gave a little gasp, and, stopping short, stared at him in blank amazement, the color fading out from her face, only to return the next moment in a red tide that spoke of unborn hope and the glory of a great possibility.No, she had not thought of the thing he mentioned; she had not seen the utter impossibility of his assuming such a role in England, unless he had more than his mere pretension to back it up, but she thought of it now—she saw the utter impossibility of it, when he called her attention to the fact."Good Heaven!" she gasped. "Then you have a right to the title? You really are what you claim to be—an English lord, an English nobleman, whose title and estates are his by royal right?""Yes, I really am," he answered, enjoying her

amazement and his own power to jeer at her for her short-sightedness and the egregious blunder she had made, in spite of her boasted cleverness. "If I was an adventurer once, I am an adventurer no longer; if I assumed a title in the days of the past I need do so no more; for death has swept away all barriers between me and a marquisate, and I am to-day, by right of inheritance, by right of lineal descent—honestly, truthfully, legally, Matthew, Marquis of Desmond ant! Baron Camperdown."He had thought to overwhelm her by that statement, had thought to crush her with his own importance, but—he knew little, after all, of the woman with whom he had to deal, and her very first words convinced him of the blunder he had made."Then, if you are legally the marquis, I, as your wife, am the Marchioness of Desmond," she cried out joyously, "and as such I demand my lawful rights, my noble husband—I demand to live with you in this castle, which, it seems, you do possess, after all—I demand to share your grandeur, demand to share your position, your title, your wealth; and you shall no longer pay court to popular actresses, nor let the world believe that you are a single man. I am your wife, my lord marquis, and, as your wife, I demand my lawful rights!"CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A SLY VIXEN.If looks could kill, she would have fallen dead at Sleaford's feet when she spoke those words, and so showed him what a fool he had been to make this admission when she was so ready to believe him an impostor, and might so easily have been persuaded to go away and leave him to play his own game unmolested, provided he never interfered with her."If I did what I ought to do, I'd wring your accursed neck!" he growled wrathfully, as—having resumed their briefly interrupted walk—they turned the last bend in the wooded road, and Thetford Castle, with the sunlight falling upon it, burst upon their vision and made Ada gasp with ecstasy. "But I am disposed to deal more leniently and more liberally with you than you deserve; and so, if you will keep the secret of our marriage and go away, I will settle a handsome income upon you for life, and put you in the way of marrying a title.""Thank you; but being a woman—and as faithful as my sex proverbially is—I prefer my husband to all other existing things," she made answer. "A bird in, the hand is worth two in the bush, you know, and the title of Marchioness of Desmond is quite good enough for me. But," she added suddenly, as she turned and faced him again, "I'll not take your word for this thing. I know you of old for a liar and a trickster, Matthew Sleaford, and I'll not believe you are the Marquis of Desmond until I have had full and convincing proof. The days of miracles are past, and by nothing but a miracle could you, the social outcast of five years ago, have become what you claim to be to-day.""Could I not?" he answered, with a sneer. "Have you never heard of men being raised to affluence by a freak of fate? Have you never heard of the poor dependents of great families being suddenly lifted from poverty and obscurity by death unexpectedly obliterating all nearer heirs and making the pauper of yesterday the millionaire of to-morrow? That, if you care to hear it, is exactly my case. My mother was a Desmond, and sister of the old marquis, who, ten years ago, was what I am now—the master of that glorious castle whose towers and turrets you see before you. But, like the weak, romantic fool that she was, she ran away with her music teacher—who, you may be sure, was in love with the family fortune, not with her—and, after being disowned by her people for the mésalliance she had made, and beaten and ill-used by her disappointed husband, died, at length, in poverty and want, bequeathing me to the tender mercies of her noble brother, since my previous father had run away and deserted the pair of us, and, unless the old marquis stepped in and rescued me, she knew there was nothing before her child but the workhouse or the streets."Well, the old marquis did step in and rescue me—I was only a boy of twelve then—and for upward of fifteen years he fed, clothed, and sheltered me and paid for my education. Not because he loved me, for I always knew that he hated the very sight of me and disliked to see the intimacy existing between his own son and me—but because I was his sister's child, and he felt it his duty to the dead to do what he could for me. I won't go into details about my life during those fifteen years, for it's none of your business, and, besides, I would not tell you if it were. Suffice it that I hated the old marquis as roundly as he hated me; that, when I was twenty, we quarreled seriously—no matter why, no matter about what—that, in anger, he cast me off, and bade me shift for myself,

and that is how I came to be an adventurer, drifted to France, and so in time fell in with you."From the day when he turned me adrift I never saw the old marquis again. He died while I was serving my sentence in the galleys at Toulon—to which your infernal spite had doomed me—and when I finally escaped and made my way back to England I found my Cousin Philip—his son and heir—in possession of the estates and title. As Philip always liked me, and knew nothing of my life on the Continent or my having been a galley slave—he took me in again, settled a small annuity upon me, and it was by his death—for he was subsequently drowned at sea—that the titles and estates reverted to me as next of kin. I became what I now am—Matthew, Marquis of Desmond. There, that's the whole story in a nut-shell, and you can't prick a flaw in it anywhere.""Nevertheless, I don't believe it," responded Ada flatly, "and, what is more, I won't believe it until I have stronger evidence of its truth than your unsupported word. For one thing, if, as you say, Philip Desmond met his death suddenly, I know enough of you to be sure that you had a hand in his taking off, and, for another thing, if what you tell me is true, and you had an allowance and a comfortable home here, how happened it that you were prowling about the woods of Newport a few months ago when, by your own showing, you ought to have been living in idleness here? If what you have told me is not a lie, pray what took you to America last spring, Mr. Matthew Sleaford?""If you want to know," said Sleaford fiercely, "I went there to do the very thing you have hinted that I did do, but which I tell you again that fate did for me—namely, to take my Cousin Philips' life and by a crime make myself the possessor of his title and estates.""He was there, then—in America?""Yes, he was there, but I couldn't find him, for, as I afterward learned, he was traveling under an assumed name. Some mad freak prompted him, while I was absent from the castle, to set sail for America, and, discarding his title lest it should bring him too much notoriety, he assumed the name of Hamilton Spread, and—"He was never permitted to finish the sentence; for, with a sudden, startled shriek, Miss Detheredge sprang upon him and clutched his arm."What name did you say?" she panted excitedly, her face growing as white as death and her blue eyes fairly bulging from their sockets. "What name did you say he was known by in the States?""Hamilton Spread.""Heavens! Is it—can it be possible that I—that he—no, no, don't ask me any questions now! Only tell me this, tell me this: Did he marry there?—marry under that assumed name?""Yes, curse him, he did! But how in the world do—""Ask nothing, ask nothing—only answer. Was the girl he married one who brought him no fortune but herself? Did she run away from home—from her friends—from her father—to become his wife, and was her name Gypsy Meredith?""Good heavens, how could you know that?" he gasped excitedly. "Yes, yes, that was her name, and she did do what you say.""What became of them after that marriage was solemnized?" pursued Miss Detheredge breathlessly. "Did they sail for England together? Did he bring her here?""No," he answered. "Didn't I tell you that Desmond was drowned at sea? He did start to bring her to England, intending to tell her the truth about himself when they arrived—for she had no idea that the name under which he had married her was an assumed

one, and that he was a man of wealth and title—but the Atlantic, the vessel upon which they sailed, was
wrecked at sea, and Desmond was drowned before his wife's very eyes.""And she—his wife? What became of her?""It was thought at the time that she was drowned, too—indeed, everybody in England still believes it, but I have since learned different. She was picked up by a vessel and carried back to America, where she still lives, in poverty and obscurity, and with no proof that she was ever a lawful wife, no idea that the man who married her was an English marquis.""Who told you that?""One who knows her well, one who is deeply interested in her, but who in ignorance of the truth has promised to procure from her all the proofs of her marriage and to put them into my hands.""And who is that?""Her friend—your friend—Miss Sylvia Montressor, the actress."For one moment Miss Detheredge stood and looked at him, her blond brows gathered, her lips curled, and her face expressing a contempt too deep for words. Then:"Oh, you fool! Oh, you blind, trustful, dunderheaded idiot!" she spluttered forth suddenly. "How like a man—how like a man to let a pretty woman take him in like that! In America, is she? Lives in poverty and obscurity, does she? And has no idea of what her runaway marriage has made her? You idiot—you blind, besotted idiot! Would you know who this Gypsy Meredith really is? Then listen: Her father is my mother's brother; it was from our home that she ran away with the man called Hamilton Spread, and she is no more in America than you and I are at this moment!""No! Can this be true? Can Sylvia have deceived

me, then? Or has the woman left America since last she heard from her? Not in America, you say? Not in America? Where, then, is she?""In England!""In England?""Yes, and last night she was here—in Kent."Then she is on the track of the truth, at last?""No, not 'at last,' for she has been on the track of it all along. She never did go back to America, and she never has been living in poverty and obscurity, as you have been told. If any vessel did pick her up, it brought her to England, and—would you know what she did when she arrived here? Well, then, she made her way to London, she went on the stage, she became a great, a famous actress, and at this moment is known to all the world by the name of Sylvia Montressor!""It is a lie—a lie!" he roared. "I won't believe it—I won't! I won't! You are saying this thing merely to spite me. Or, if not"—noting the fixed and earnest expression of her face, and growing sick at heart at sight of it—or, if not, you have made a dreadful blunder, and are cruelly mistaken.""Is it possible that I could be mistaken when I tell you that she is my own cousin, and that I know her as well as I know myself? Was it not at her house you met me to-day? Did not that sniveling maid of hers tell you that I was a friend of her mistress', who had come all the way from America to see her? Oh, you fool! Oh, you fool! to be duped like this, and by a mere chit of a girl, who had nothing but a pretty face and a sleek, deceptive manner to recommend her! I tell you again that Sylvia Montressor and Gypsy Meredith are one, and she has been fooling you, playing you, winning her way into your secret from the first hour you crossed her path, and it will not be her fault if she does not prove herself the Marchioness of Desmond before many days have passed.""Impossible!" exclaimed Sleaford, collapsing suddenly and leaning feebly against the nearest tree."Awake—bestir yourself—be a man!" cried Ada, springing forward and shaking his arm. "Answer me: Have you much to fear from her? Is the fortune entailed with the title, and can you still hold that in spite of her?'""No," he answered miserably. "There is no entail upon the money. It comes wholly and solely from Philip's mother, and Philip's widow is his heir.""Then you will be penniless if Gypsy succeeds in proving her rights?""Yes, yes! Only the right to bear the title and to live at the castle for the time of my life is mine, and even that I cannot do if I have no money to keep the place up.""And you know not where she is—this woman who has so successfully duped you? You have had no hand in her mysterious disappearance?""No. Have you?""I only wish I had!" responded Miss Detheredge passionately. "I would promise you that she never should cross our path again till the last day of our lives. But all is not lost even yet. Take me to the castle at once and supply me with a messenger, who will take a letter to my mother in London. I'll write to her, I'll tell her all, I'll put her on her guard, I'll warn her to keep my uncle from coming down here, and at the same time to put detectives upon this Sylvia Montressor's track, that we may find out where she has gone, and so take steps to get rid of her. It is all a trick, this mysterious going away of hers. She has some plot afoot—some reason of her own for seeming to disappear from this locality, but between us we will baffle her, Matthew, and when we have baffled her—""Yes, yes. What, then?""Then you shall marry me all over again, and let

the friends of the Marquis of Desmond know that his lordship has chosen for a wife not the great actress with whom society has linked his name, but the lady he met in America, and who is staying at Thetford Castle as his guest. Come! come! rouse yourself, and take me into the castle without delay, for we have much to do to head Gypsy Meredith off, and we must begin our work at once. My part shall be to set my mother on the trail, and yours—"She paused and looked at him, a lurking demon in her eyes and a mirthless smile upon her lovely scarlet lips."Yours shall be to follow the trail as soon as my mother has found it," she went on, after a moment; "to follow and find this Sylvia Montressor, and when you have found her—""Yes, yes! When I have found her? Well, what, then?""A repetition of what you tried on me in the Newport road!" she answered, looking him straight in the eyes. "Only it must be more skillfully done, and without blunders in this case. A few inches of sharp steel, a little ball of lead, or a cup of poison! What does it matter which you employ, so that Sylvia Montressor dies, and the fortune of the Desmonds goes with the title, and both come at last to you and me!"CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.Geoffrey Meredith could not think of leaving Clarice Spread the same night her brother Hamilton had died, for he felt that she wanted not only woman's comforting presence, but man's strength to lean upon in this sad hour of her bereavement, and that it would be nothing less than cruel to expect his wife to leave the stricken friend who for so many years had been her tender comforter. He prevailed upon Mrs. Detheredge to remain, also, and, after engaging rooms for himself and his sister, he went out and sent to the Langham Hotel the telegram for Ada.He had hoped and had expected to return on the morrow, as that telegram stated, but when that morrow came, with its leaden sky and pelting rain, it found his wife—upon whom the experiences of the preceding night had told most heavily—far too weak and nervous to start forth at once and still reluctant to leave her faithful friend; and so, after waiting until late in the afternoon in the hope that she would be better able to endure the journey, he had gone out and sent a second telegram to Ada, telling her not to expect them back until quite late.But the deepening night and the tempestuous rain had in time made a third telegram necessary, stating that Miss Detheredge was not to expect them until to-morrow. But Miss Detheredge never received that third message, for she was even then on her way to Deephaven Royals and the discomforts which that journey was fated to bring.So the second night passed and the third day dawned—that lovely sun-gifted day when Ada walked out of the Desmond Arms and started forth at length upon

her fateful visit to Deephaven Villa—but even then
Mrs. Meredith was loath to leave her afflicted friend, and feeling, as
the day advanced, that something more than the cold courtesy of
telegrams was due to Ada as an explanation of his and her mother's
protracted absence, Geoffrey Meredith determined upon going to the
hotel in person and explaining to her the reason of their long delay."Poor child! she must almost fancy that we have deserted her, Linda," he said to Mrs. Detheredge, as he took his departure, and she must be very lonely in that big hotel."But, to his surprise, when he arrived at his destination and announced his identity, he found that Miss Detheredge was gone and had been gone since early upon the preceding evening.In great alarm he asked to be shown to the rooms she had so lately occupied, and upon going into them, almost the first thing he saw was the open note which his niece had left, explaining her absence and giving the name of her destination."Gone to visit a friend at Deephaven Royals in Kent," repeated Geoffrey Meredith, as he read over the note. "It is very strange, very strange, indeed. Who can this friend be, and how can Ada have heard from her so soon after our arrival in England?
I wish she had given us a more definite address, for I do not think she had very much money with her, and if she should need more I really don't know where to send it. Then, too, she can have taken but very little clothing with her, for all her trunks still seem to be here, and so—"Glancing about the room, his eye fell upon a little, crumpled wad of paper lying close to the fireplace, and, noticing that there was writing upon it, he stooped and picked it up.Thus Miss Detheredge's plans were upset; for that little wad of paper was the letter she had received

yesterday afternoon from the polite young man in the box office of the
Haymarket Theater—the letter giving the full address of Miss
Sylvia Montressor, and which she had crumpled up and thoughtlessly
thrown aside the moment she had read its contents."Bless her, Heaven bless her! for I have long wronged her, and she is not, after all, so heartless as I have grown to believe," exclaimed Mr. Meredith, as he read that letter. "She has gone to find my child and lead her to me, not knowing, not dreaming of what I, too, have found and what a blessed welcome awaits Gypsy now that the truth has been told and her mother has been given back to me by the hand of the dead!"Then, pressing the letter to his lips, he hastened out of the room, out of the hotel, and, hiring a cab, was driven back at all speed to Bedford Square and the presence of his long-suffering wife, to whom he had related all the story of the past; his finding their child, Gypsy, and her mysterious marriage and disappearance.As briefly as possible he made known the result of his visit to the hotel, and read aloud the letter he had found."Oh, have courage, love, have courage!" he said, as he put the crumpled sheet of paper into his wife's trembling hands, and, with his arm about her, held her close to his bosom while she read, through happy tears the message that the letter contained."We shall soon embrace our child, dear wife, and all the shadows of the past will be swept away in the sun-shine of her sweet presence. Why, how you start and tremble, dear, and how white and terrified your face has suddenly grown! What is it, love? Speak, speak, I beg of you.""This letter!" she answered, with a little thrill of terror in her voice. "Oh, Geoffrey, do you not see? Do you not understand? This letter was written yes-

terday, and yesterday your niece journeyed to the address contained in it.""Yes, of course she did, bless her! But what is there in that to terrify you, dear?""Everything!" she made answer, in a tone of deepest agitation. "If she went to Deephaven Villa yesterday, why is she not back before this, and why, if she has been detained unavoidably, have we not received some word from her when there is always the telegraph to ease our anxiety, and she does not know but what you returned to the hotel last night, as you wired her that you would? Hours and hours have elapsed since her departure, and yet not one word has come to tell of the success or failure of her mission."Oh, Geoffrey!"—growing suddenly wild with anguish and despair—"oh, Geoffrey, what if our child will not come back to you? What if, remembering your bitterness against the man with whom she fled, she refuses to believe that it is possible for you to forgive her, and cannot, will not, be coaxed to come back?""Good Heaven! I had not thought of that.""But I have! I have! I am a woman, and know woman's ways. She will not believe forgiveness possible until she hears it from your own lips, and the thought of losing my child now—now, when all life and love have opened out their arms to me anew, the thought of that almost drives me mad. Oh, Geoffrey—oh, my husband! let us fly to her at once; let us assure her of your forgiveness; let us hold her in our arms again, for something tells me that if we delay to do so now she will be lost to us forever.""Then, put on your hat and wrap and we will go at once," he answered. "Linda, you will stay with Miss Spread until we return, will you not, my dear?"Then, not waiting for Mrs. Detheredge to make reply, he caught up his hat, ran out of the house, and went in quest of a cab.Ten minutes later he returned with one, and found his wife all dressed and ready for departure."To Victoria Station," he called out to the driver, as he assisted his wife into the vehicle."Aye, aye, sir," responded cabby, as he touched his hat; then the cab swung suddenly round, the horse started off, and the journey to Victoria was begun.Three-quarters of an hour later, when the train for Deephaven Royals steamed out of the station, it bore Mr. and Mrs. Meredith with it, and so it happened that precisely two hours after Miss Detheredge had written and dispatched her warning letter to her mother, the old ramshackle "fly," with its overgrown horse, rushed up from the station and halted before Deephaven Villa for the second time, and Jemima Ann, rushing to answer the summons of the knocker, flung open the door, and stood face to face with Gypsy's parents.CHAPTER XL.
AFTER LONG GRIEF AND PAIN.In the interval between the departure of Miss Detheredge and Mr. Matthew Sleaford and the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Meredith at Deephaven Villa, Jemima Ann had taken matters into her own hands, and the result was of so serious a nature that it demands a word of explanation.Dissatisfied by the manner in which the pseudo Marquis of Desmond had conducted the inquiry into the cause of Gypsy's mysterious disappearance, and disgusted by his readiness to abandon all active searching for the time being and go off to the castle to "talk over old times" with Miss Detheredge, the child had shut the garden door after them when they walked out of the villa, and, addressing herself to the wall, for want of a better audience, had exclaimed disgustedly:"That fellow's N.G., that's what he is, and he ain't got no more
'sand' in him than there is in a duck's egg. He's one of them Johnnies
that's took with every pretty woman that comes along, and now he's
dead gone on that 'dizzy blonde,' whoever she is, and they've gone off
at a time like this to talk over 'old times,' as though every moment
that's wasted doesn't make it harder to trace Miss Gypsy and find out
where she's been took. For she has been took! Letter or no letter, I
know that she has, and that there Ned Twyford, he's at the bottom of this, for all Lord Desmond sticks up for him and tries to make me believe that it isn't possible."She stopped short, completing the sentence with a gasp, and stood for a moment staring blankly at the wall, the color fading slowly out of her face until it

was of the hue of dough, her eyes widening like the eyes of a frightened animal, and her slim chest heaving with suppressed emotion.For a thought had suddenly come to her—a thought so terrible, so horrifying that it almost made her knees knock together."Oh, gee!" she gasped, clapping one hand over her heart and leaning back against the frame of the garden door in a sudden fit of weakness and terror; "oh, gee! I never thought of that before—I'm such a fool that I never thought of that before! What if Lord Desmond has found out who Miss Gypsy really is? What if him and the steward is in this together, and that's why he is so ready to stand up for Ned Twyford and go off talking with the blond woman what was here just now! Oh, I'm afraid, I'm desperate afraid, I've hit on the truth, and that that's what explains all!" she went on breathlessly. "He was 'dead stuck' on Miss Gypsy, he was, there can't be no doubt about that—and when a man's dead stuck on a girl and she disappears mysterious in the middle of the night and leaves no clew behind her, he don't act like Lord Desmond has just acted—at least, not in any novel I ever read. He don't drop huntin' for her and go off to talk about old times with the first woman that comes along and knows him; he don't give up the search right in the very beginning, and pooh-pooh at folks as tells him that there's proof as his steward is a villain, and no friend to the lady what's disappeared. And that's what he did, and so—and so—oh, gee! it ain't no use of trustin' in him to find her now. He knows her—I'm dead sure of it—he knows that she's the young girl as the other Lord Desmond married in America, and that there ain't no show for him. So—so I'll go right out and telegraph to Miss St. Quentin to come here at once—that is what I'll do. I'll telegraph for Miss St. Quentin, and when she comes I'll—I'll tell her everything, and me and her and Mr.

Rawley we'll begin the hunt for Miss Gypsy, and we'll find her, too, if she's on the earth!"With Jemima Ann to think was to act, and, having arrived at this desperate conclusion—and it was desperate, for she knew full well that Gypsy had always shrunk from having her story revealed to Miss St. Quentin—she faced about suddenly, scuttled upstairs like a daft creature, clapped on her hat and jacket, and, without more ado, off she flew to the post office as fast as her feet could carry her.Twenty minutes later the message to Miss St. Quentin was flashing along the wires to London, and the deed was done.The result, although it seemed to Jemima Ann an eternity of suspense, came sooner than you might have expected, for the "wire" happened to reach Miss St. Quentin just as she was all dressed and ready for going out; it happened, too, to arrive at a time when it was possible for her to catch the very next train for Deephaven Royals; and so it came to pass that at the very hour when Mr. and Mrs. Meredith started from London. to make the same journey, Miss Gabrielle St. Quentin arrived at her destination, and was clasped in the arms of the tearful and excited Jemima Ann.Gypsy's story was soon told, and the amazement of Miss St. Quentin at learning who Miss "Sylvia Montressor" really was, her delight at discovering the real cause of her friend and protégée's interest in Lord Matthew Desmond, and the reason why she had accepted his attentions, and come down here to occupy the villa he had equipped with servants and placed at her disposal, can easily be imagined. In the midst of the conversation, there suddenly came an excited knock at the door, and Jemima Ann, rushing out of the drawing-room to answer it, flung open the door, and so, for the first time in her life, found herself face to face with Gypsy's parents.She did not know them, of course; but from the excited manner in
which Mr. Meredith had plied the knocker, she had fancied that it was
the herald of some news of Gypsy at last, and had flown on the wings
of the wind to receive it.But, as the door was opened and she beheld before her a well-dressed, middle-aged couple, upon whom she had never set eyes before:"Oh, yes!" she involuntarily and despairingly exclaimed: "It's only
more strangers, Miss St. Quentin, and I made sure it was news of her!
Disappointments is hittin' this house with a hammer this day, and I'm bein' fooled every time I go to the door. 'Scuse me, mister and missus"—addressing herself to the callers—"but what do you two want, if it's all the same to you?""We would like to see Miss Sylvia Montressor, young woman," said Mr. Meredith promptly, as, without more ado, he stepped over the threshold the moment the door was opened and drew his wife in after him. "Show us at once to the drawing-room, and have the goodness to tell your mistress that we have come upon business of the utmost importance, and must see her at all hazards. Say to her that our visit has to do with her happiness, and that we bring her the best and the most blessed of news."Jemima Ann stared at him as he spoke, and then, with a sort of howl, leaned back against the wall."Good news ain't for this house!" she broke out distressfully. "If you're come to fetch it to Miss Montressor, you're come too late, sir. She's gone—she's disappeared, and there ain't nobody that knows where she is.""Gone!" repeated Mr. Meredith, in despair, as, with a wailing, broken cry of "I knew it, I feared it, Geoffrey!" his wife sank feebly against him, and, laying
her head upon his shoulder, burst into anguished tears. "Gone, do you say? Gone where? Gone how?"Nobody knows! Nobody knows! blubbered Jemima Ann, with a fresh outburst of grief. "She's disappeared—that's all anybody can tell you—she's disappeared, and my heart is broke, oh, my heart is broke!"A fresh outburst of tears from Mrs. Meredith and a despairing cry from her husband greeted this announcement, but before another word could be spoken a footstep sounded, a fashionably dressed figure stepped across the threshold of the drawing-room, and Miss St. Quentin made her appearance."Go inside, Jemima Ann, and leave me to attend to this lady and gentleman," she said; then, addressing herself to Geoffrey Meredith: "Pray, forgive the child," she added, "for she was wonderfully fond of her mistress, and this terrible affair has quite upset her. But what she tells you is only too true. Miss Montressor has mysteriously disappeared, and has left no clew behind her. She vanished from this house last night as completely as though the earth had swallowed her and left only broken hearts behind.""Oh, Heaven, have pity! Heaven, have pity!", groaned Geoffrey Meredith, clasping his weeping wife closer, with tears trickling down his pale, anguished face. "Don't weep, don't weep, dear. Gone, gone, and none know why? Ah, no, I know why—wretched, wretched man that I am—I know why! She has heard of my presence in England, and she has flown, not knowing how my heart has changed, and how blessed fate has lifted the shadow from my life and hers. She has flown to escape my wrath, and does not know that I have come to-day to ask her forgiveness, and to take her to my heart again. Oh, Gypsy! why did you do it, dear?""Gypsy!" gasped Miss St. Quentin and Jemima Ann, in a breath. "Good Heaven, you know her, then?""Yes, I know her," he made answer brokenly. "Ah,

who should, if I do not? I know her for one Gypsy Meredith, who
secretly married a man named Hamilton Spread, in America, some months
ago. I know her for Gypsy Meredith, my own child; and I have come too late to seek her.""Good Heaven! You are her father?""Yes, I am her father, and this is her mother—her heartbroken mother, who has yearned so long to hold her. And we have come too late, too late to take her to our hearts and tell her that the past is forgiven, forgotten—and we remember only her.""Oh, come in! oh, come in!" exclaimed Miss St. Quentin excitedly. "You do not yet know how proud you have reason to be of your daughter, Mr. Meredith ; you do not yet know whom it really was that she married all those months ago; but, thank fortune, I, as her friend, may tell you now, and so win you to help us in tracing and finding her. Come in, Mr. Meredith—come into the drawing-room, and let me tell Sylvia Montressor's father and mother how true, how noble a woman she really is, and how blessed are you who not only know her as 'Gypsy,' but are permitted to call her daughter!"So she led them in, and so, for the second time the story of the past was told, and told—this time, by Miss St. Quentin's lips—to Gypsy Meredith's father.CHAPTER XLI.
NOT ON THE BILLS.At its conclusion, Geoffrey Meredith and his wife stood for the moment as though stupefied by the astonishing revelation, and then, with one accord, they rushed upon the still sobbing Jemima Ann, they caught her to their bosoms, they embraced, they kissed, they absolutely smothered her with caresses, and then, in grateful recognition of Miss St. Quentin's kindness to their lost child, repeated the same performance with her, and blessed her with fervent hearts for the manner in which she had stood by Gypsy in the time of poverty and need."Oh, don't thank me," said Miss St. Quentin, with artless candor. "I couldn't have made her a success if she'd not been a born actress, Mr. Meredith; she's a genius of Heaven's own creating, and her success was won by merit alone. If you must thank anybody for spurring her on, thank Jemima Ann, and no one else.But, oh," she added suddenly, her face paling and her eyes filling with fresh tears, "let us not talk of her past successes, Mr. Meredith; let us think only of her strange disappearance, and of the necessity to begin the search for her at once, for now that I know the true story, I feel that Jemima Ann is only too prophetic in her assertion that Lord Matthew Desmond has discovered the truth, and is at the bottom of this mystery.""But why should he be—oh, Heaven, why should he be—if, as you both agree, he loves my child and was eager to make her his wife?" wailed Mrs. Meredith tearfully, wringing her hands. "The fact of his having discovered her to be his cousin's widow would not

make such a marriage impossible nor put an end to the affection you say he felt for her. Why should he seek to carry her off? If, indeed, he has done so?""For two very good reasons," responded Miss St. Quentin. "For one
thing, Gypsy did not return his passion; she never had the slightest
intention of becoming his wife, and, if he had discovered her
identity, he must have discovered that, as well; and for another
thing, he knows that if she ever succeeds in proving her marriage to
his dead cousin she will deprive him of every penny he now
possesses. For the fortune of the Desmonds is not entailed with the
title, Mrs. Meredith; it comes from the maternal side of the house, and was left to Lord Philip Desmond by deed of gift from his mother."You are surprised that I should know this; I see you are amazed that I should know so much of the Desmond affairs. Ah, you will be so no longer when I tell you that in the past I have spent many a happy day upon the Desmond estate in company with my aunt and uncle, and that I learned all these things from them. My uncle was then, as his son is now, the steward of Thetford Castle. His name was Twyford, Mrs. Meredith; his wife was my mother's sister, and their Ned Twyford, of whose implication in the plot against Gypsy, Jemima Ann feels so very confident, is, therefore, my own cousin.""Gee! You don't mean that, Miss St. Quentin," gasped the astonished Jemima Ann; then, remembering something which until now had escaped her memory : "Yes, you do, too," she suddenly added, "for on the night Lord Desmond first met Miss Gypsy, you told him so—you asked him if he knowed what had become of your aunt and uncle, and of a cousin of yours, a girl called Maggie Twyford, who used to live on the Desmond estates when you was a little girl. Oh, Miss St. Quentin!" with an outburst of loyalty that brought a smile to the little actress' pale, serious

face, "Oh, Miss St. Quentin, I take, it all, back. Ned Twyford ain't mixed up in this—Ned Twyford ain't a villain; nobody could be that's a relation o' yours, and—and I take it all back, indeed, indeed I do.""And yet he may be a villain, for all that, Jemima Ann," responded Miss St. Quentin, affectionately patting the shoulder of this stanch adherent. "Recollect, dear, that I know almost nothing about him; for he was a youth of fifteen when Maggie and I were only little girls, and, as he felt himself rather too old to associate with such a juvenile person as his 'Cousin Sally'—my real name is Sarah Boggs, you know—I never had a chance to form a proper estimate of his character or to dream what kind of a man he would become. I only know of him that he was passionately fond of his little sister Maggie, that he was a devoted brother, and, to all outward appearances, a model son; and yet, in spite of these things, he may have developed into a rascal."What response, if any, Jemima Ann might have made to this statement can never be told, for at that moment the door of the drawing-room was thrust open, and Springer, poking her head into the room, announced excitedly:"Miss Jemima Ann! Lord Desmond's French valet is downstairs in the servants' 'all, actin' like he was goin' to have a fit. He says he's come to see you, miss—that he must see you, and—and—oh, my! but I've discovered something, miss! That there mustache o' hisn never growed on him. It's false, miss, it's false, for it's all awry, and he's that excited he doesn't know it!"This announcement fell like a thunderclap upon the little gathering in the drawing-room.That Lord Desmond's valet should pay a visit to Deephaven Villa upon his own account—and he could not have come upon an errand of his master's; otherwise he would have mentioned that fact at once—

at such a time as this, and in such a state of excitement as Springer
asserted, was startling enough; but when this unexpected visitor was
discovered to be a person who habitually wore a disguise, the result was a sort of panic that frightened poor Springer almost out of her wits."Send him up; send him up at once, and say nothing to him about there being anybody here but just Jemima Ann herself," exclaimed Miss St. Quentin excitedly; then, as Springer vanished: "A disguised man in Lord Desmond's service?" she added agitatedly, "a disguised man who comes here and at such a time as this? Oh, what does, what can, it mean? Quick get behind those curtains, Mr. and Mrs. Meredith, and I'll hide myself behind the screen here. The man mustn't know but what he has only Jemima Ann to deal with, He'll be more likely to betray the cause of his visit then, and we may perhaps—who knows?—gain some clew that will lead us to the root of this mystery."The suggestion was such a sensible one that Mr. and Mrs. Meredith did not hesitate to act upon it at once, and to secrete themselves behind the heavy curtains that draped the archway leading into an adjoining room."Now, then, caution, Jemima Ann, caution!" whispered Miss St. Quentin. "Remember, let him do all the talking, and so—""Ah, sank you, sank you, mademoiselle," broke in a voice from the hallway, the voice of Monsieur Henri Du Bois. "No, no, you need not show me the way. If mademoiselle ees in ze drawing-room, I know where zat ees, and I will trouble you no more."Then came a swift patter of footsteps along the hallway, and Miss St. Quentin had only time to whisk behind a screen, before "monsieur" came breathlessly into the room.One glance at the pseudo Frenchman was sufficient

to tell Jemima Ann that Springer had not exaggerated even in the slightest, for poor Maggie was literally daft with excitement and terror, and made a picture pitiful to see.Gliding into the room like a thing pursued, the poor, excited creature hastily closed and locked the door, and then, with a wail of misery and despair, turned toward Jemima Ann."Tell me, is it true about my lady's disappearance?" she cried, dropping suddenly her assumed French accent and speaking in her own voice. "I have just heard of it, and I have come here to learn the truth. Oh, Jemima Ann! you are her friend, and there is now no need for me to shrink from telling the truth to you.""Oh, gee!" gasped Jemima Ann, carried off her feet by excitement and the startling discovery which the valet's undisguised voice had allowed her to make. Oh, gee! You ain't a man at all! You're a woman!""Yes, I am a woman—a long-suffering woman!" responded Maggie, with a sudden burst of tears. "There is no need for me to keep the truth hidden from you, Jemima Ann, for you, too, are her friend, and will keep my secret, as she has done.""She? Good glory! Who do you mean by 'she'?""I mean the Marchioness of Desmond! I mean the woman who is known to the world as Sylvia Montressor, but to you and me as Miss Gypsy Meredith, whom Lord Philip Desmond married, and whom Matthew Sleaford has so vilely deceived. Oh, don't think that this is a trap!"—for Jemima Ann assumed a puzzled look and affected to be indignant at this statement regarding Gypsy's real identity—"don't think
that I am an emissary of treacherous Matthew Sleaford. Oh, believe that what I say is true; believe that I am a friend to my lady, 'Miss Gypsy'; believe that she herself has told me all—that I know her secret, even as she knows mine—that I am her friend—her

sworn friend—and that if she has indeed disappeared, as I have so recently learned—"She has," broke in Jemima Ann, with a fresh outburst of grief. "Oh, she has! she has! She went away last night—but—but—oh, gee! what a mutton-head I am! Say, I don't take no stock in what you're tellin' me, missis, and if it's all the same to you, why, you're comin' this 'bluff' for nothin' at all!""Ah! Heaven, do you doubt me still?" wailed Maggie, wringing her hands, in despair. "Oh, child! child! can I do nothing to convince you' of the truth? Nothing to make you understand that she did trust me with her secret?—that I am her friend and yours?—and that if she is lost I know that Matthew Sleaford's hand is in it, and I will never rest, night or day, until I have hounded him to justice, and snatched her from his clutches? Oh, Jemima Ann! won't you believe in me ?—won't you trust me, when I am trusting you so much? It would be my death if Matthew Sleaford knew I am a woman, and, of all women, the one who has suffered most at his hands! And yet I am trusting my secret to you. I am telling you this to make you believe me, and in the same cause. I will tell you more! Look! see!"—wrenching off her false mustache—"I am keeping nothing back from you, not even my paltry disguise! Look at me, and believe what I say! I am not only a woman, but I am Matthew Sleaford's lawful wife, and my name is Maggie Twyford!"The response to this came not from the lips of Jemima Ann, for suddenly, and without warning, a cry resounded from the room, the screen went over with a crash, and there stood Miss St. Quentin!"Maggie! My dear, dear Cousin Maggie! Don't you recognize me?" cried she, reaching out her arms. "I am Sarah Boggs—your own 'Cousin Sally,' Maggie, dear, and I am Gypsy Meredith's friend, as well as yours!""Sally, oh, Sally!" cried out Maggie Twyford, as she threw herself into Miss St. Quentin's arms. "You'll believe me, won't you, dear?""Believe you? Of course I will!" exclaimed Miss St. Quentin, as she
embraced and kissed her, "and so will Jemima Ann and everybody else
after this. Come out, Mr. and Mrs. Meredith"—raising her
voice— "come out, and fear nothing, for 'Monsieur Henri Du Bois' is a friend, after all, and now I think we are going to get on the track of the mystery and learn what has become of Gypsy. Maggie, my dear, these are my lady's parents," she added, as Geoffrey Meredith and his wife came forward. "They, too, have heard every word you have said, and they, too, will believe you, now that the mask has been lifted, and we know you for what you really are.""And so will I—so will I!" supplemented Jemima Ann, bursting
forward and wringing Maggie Twyford's hand in the midst of her
presentation to Gypsy's parents. "I'll believe
everything—everything, 'ceptin' that bluff you give us about
been Lord Matthew Sleaford's wife—and, oh, gee! but that was a
screamer, and no mistake!""And yet it is as true as truth itself," responded Maggie fervently. "I am, indeed, Lord Matthew Sleaford's wife, and if I can but find the paper—the blessed paper for which I seek—even he cannot deny my claim nor refuse to give me the name which is truly and lawfully mine! I am his wife—I am his lawful wife, and, after eight years of misery and desertion, I have come back to prove my rights!"CHAPTER XLII.
THE CLEW FOUND.It was not upon Jemima Ann alone that this announcement fell with startling effect."His wife!—Lord Matthew Sleaford's wife?" gasped Miss St. Quentin. "My dear Maggie, are you sure of what you say?""As sure as I am that there is a Heaven above us," she made answer; "and so will you be when you have heard all. There is no need for me to go into details, Sally, and I will not weary you with words. That man, Matthew Sleaford, tempted me to run away from home, and, although I know now what a scoundrel he was—and is—I give him the credit of playing a man's part then, and of dealing fairly by the girl who had given up so much for him in the belief that he was worthy of it, and that he honestly loved her. But under the pretext that to marry me in Paris would necessitate not only a loss of much time, but the probable discovery of our union by friends of his, who were then in the gay city, he took me to Italy, where the marriage laws are not so strict as in France, and there, in a little out-of-the-way village, we were made man and wife, and the certificate of our marriage given into his hands."I never asked him for it—I loved him too well even to doubt his intention to deal unfairly by me or to do aught that a man of honor would not do; but time opened my eyes, and when it was all too late I knew him for the scoundrel he really was."Once married, we went on traveling from place to place in Italy, and one day—about three months later—the scales fell from my eyes, and I knew what a fool I had been to trust him. I could speak neither

French nor Italian, and he spoke both. I had never asked him, and I do not know, even to this day, the name of the village in which we were married, nor the name of the clergyman who united us. I simply trusted, simply loved him, and out of such mad trust and such mad love the end, when it came, was possible.""He deserted you?" queried Miss St. Quentin."Yes, he deserted me!" she answered brokenly. "Suddenly—without a hint of warning, without a penny of money—with nothing but a brief, cold note to tell me that he had tired of me, and had gone his way alone—suddenly, shamefully, he left me—in a land where I was a stranger, where I was ignorant of the language and knew not where to turn—left me and took my marriage lines with him, and neither thought nor cared what was to become of me after that.""Oh, the scoundrel!""Yes! yes! He was that, and nothing else, and—Heaven forgive me for ever loving him or trusting him—he will be that to the last day of his life. How I vowed to find him—how I lived through the long years that followed, until I had saved enough out of the pittance I earned to enable me to begin my search, I will not weary you or wring my own heart by recounting."Suffice it that I tramped through all Italy, from town to town and village to village, seeking for news that should tell me that I had at last found the place where that scoundrel had made me his wife, and when I did find it—ah, Heaven! it was all too late."Only by the village itself was I enabled to recognize that place, for memory alone remained to me out of the wreck of the cruel past—memory and nothing more. The church in which we were married had long since been burned down, the clergyman who united us was in his grave, and there was nothing but

hope—empty hope—to prove me what I knew myself to be. Of what followed what need to tell? I am here, and by my disguise you may know what means I took to ferret out the truth, and how hopeless, how futile those means have been up to the present time. I am Matthew Sleaford's wife, but I cannot prove it, and I am Matthew Sleaford's victim, but I cannot prove that, either. I can only exert my weak influence to prevent other women from falling into his net, and—ah, it seems as though I have failed in that, also.""Not yet, please Heaven, not yet, if you allude to my dear daughter!" exclaimed Geoffrey Meredith. "It may be—it must be—possible to trace and find my child, even though that wretch, Matthew Sleaford, has had a hand in her disappearance.""And he has—I feel and know that he has!" responded Maggie Twyford brokenly. "Oh, Mr. Meredith, oh, Cousin Sally, I have not yet told you of how my brother Ned has come back to England and become that monster's devoted slave."But if she had not yet told them of it, she told them
now—told them of that affair in the picture gallery at Thetford Castle, told them of how she and Gypsy had become convinced that Ned Twyford was, indeed, a rascal, and bound heart and soul to the interest of the man he served, and in the telling seemed to prove it all."Oh, then there can be no mistake!" exclaimed Geoffrey Meredith. "It is his doing, and, in spite of the letters that Jemima Ann swears was written by her, my child has, indeed, been spirited away by that monster.""But not beyond the hope of finding," struck in Miss
St. Quentin. "There may be some clew to guide us, if we only seek it,
Mr. Meredith, and, oh, let us seek it now. Lead us to her room, Jemima
Ann—where last you saw her, dear, and who knows but

we may find there some trifling thing that will put us on the track?""There ain't much hope of it, I'm afeered," responded tearfully Jemima Ann. "But come, if you think there is, and let's hunt for it at once."So saying, she led them all up to Gypsy's room, where she, poor child, had last seen her mistress."Look! there ain't nothin' here that'll tell us anything," she said, as she flung open the door and ushered them in. "There's the bed—not been slep' in—just as it was last night; there's the desk and the letter she was writin' to you, Miss St. Quentin, and there on the chair beside it is the dress she wore when last I see her."Miss St. Quentin glanced at the dress, and while the rest were searching about the floor and prying into the cupboards and wardrobes she went forward and took it up.She had had too long an experience upon the stage, where "clews" are ever in waiting for the proper person to find them, too long an experience of the ways of melodrama, to neglect so important a thing as the dress last worn by the lost heroine, and so, faithful to her dramatic instincts, she looked for a pocket, found it, plunged her hand into it, and triumphantly drew forth a letter."I know where she is—I know, I know, and so do you, Maggie Twyford! for this letter is signed 'Henri Du Bois,' and either you are a wretched little hypocrite, after all, or this letter in my hand is a forgery. Mr. Meredith! Jemima Ann! I know where Gypsy is! She is in London—in Desmond House, Cromwell Road, South Kensington, and here's a letter that proves it!"CHAPTER XLIII.
THE WATERMARK.Merely crying out—not saying anything intelligible, for they were all too wildly excited for that—Mr. and Mrs. Meredith and Jemima Ann, and even the pseudo valet rushed upon the little actress like so many starving wolves upon a stray lamb, and for a moment or two nothing was heard but a jumble of excited sentences that ran like this:"A letter!" "Let me see it!" "Desmond House!" "How do you know?" "Oh, gee! have we found a clew?" "It's a trick! It's a forgery!" "Oh, Gypsy!"The first really intelligible speech that rose over the din and hubbub was uttered by Maggie Twyford."Shame on you for even thinking I am a hypocrite, Cousin Sally, and if that letter says that I have had any hand in Lady Gypsy's disappearance, then the letter is a forgery."The letter does say it, then," asseverated Miss St. Quentin. "Not in so many words, Maggie, but by reason of its signature.""Its signature?""Yes it is signed with your name, and purports to come from you.""From me?" echoed Maggie, in a voice of horror and surprise. "Why,
I never wrote to my lady in my life—never—upon any
subject—I swear it! Whatever we had to say to each other was
said in person—not by letter. I lay a trap for her? I concerned
in her disappearance? I? Let me see that infamous letter, Cousin
Sally, and— But, no, don't do it yet, don't do it yet. Look,
first, at this"—drawing from an inner pocket of the coat she wore a small, flat volume
bound in black morocco and thrusting it into Miss St.

Quentin's hands. "It is my diary, Cousin Sally. I have always kept
one, and this is a new volume, bought when I came here, to record my daily life at Thetford Castle. There is but little in it—I have been so short a time here in this disguise—but that little is enough for the purpose. Take it, look at it anywhere—I care not what you read, now that you know my miserable secret—take it, dear, and compare it with the writing of that letter, and tell me if the writing in both agree.""No, it does not!" answered Miss St. Quentin and Mr. Meredith and Jemima Ann in a breath. "They are different, totally different, and the hand that wrote in this book is not the hand that penned the letter found in Gypsy's pocket.""Ah, you realize it!" responded Maggie, with a burst of grateful tears. "Now let me see the letter and discover whose writing it is, for it may be a forgery which even my lady herself never saw—a forgery designed to throw us off the track, purposely placed in the pocket of that dress without Lady Gypsy's knowledge, and after she had been spirited away.""Oh, dear! I never thought of that!" exclaimed Miss St. Quentin despairingly. "After all, she may not have gone to Desmond House, as this letter seems to prove that she did, Mr. Meredith, and it may turn out to be a false clew, even at the eleventh hour.""Gee! of course it may!" echoed Jemima Ann dejectedly. "If Miss
Twyford never writ it, and somebody went and signed her name to it,
then that somebody must have been on to the hull game. Don't you see?
Don't you tumble? The duck what writ it must have been spying on Miss
Gypsy, and, of course, he wouldn't put down the right place where Miss
Gypsy was took, if he was goin' to leave a 'bluff' letter behind. It's
a 'fake'—that's what it is—it's a 'fake' to chuck us all
off the track, and if Miss Twyford don't tumble to the handwritin'
we'll! never find out where Miss Gypsy has been took. Look at the letter—look

at the letter," she went on excitedly, as she snatched it
unceremoniously from Miss St. Quentin's grasp and thrust it into the
hands of Maggie Twyford. "See if you know the writin', Maggie, and if
you can put us on to the party what forged it."With trembling hands the pseudo valet bore the letter nearer to the window where the bright sunshine could fall full upon it, and, bending over it, scrutinized the writing narrowly."No," she said despairingly, after a moment's pause. "No, I do not recognize the writing. Certainly it is not Matthew Sleaford's, and we need no longer dread that she has fallen into his hands. The hand appears to be that of a woman, but—I do not recognize it."It would be strange if she had done so, especially after so hasty an examination, for when Ned Twyford forged the letter he purposely and at great pains disguised his writing so as to make it appear a woman's hand. But, although Ned Twyford was no more able than anybody else in the world ever was or ever will be to produce a forgery in which at intervals certain little twists and curls and mannerisms of the actual writer do not manifest themselves in spite of all his care, those mannerisms were not apparent at first glance, and especially to the eye of a sister who had not seen a scrap of his penmanship for years."No, I don't recognize it," went on Maggie, forlornly. "It appears to be a woman's writing, and if—"She stopped short suddenly and started as though stung, her face growing white with terror and her eyes dilating."Gee! what's the matter with you now?" exclaimed Jemima Ann,
startled by the sudden change in her. "You look as though you were
going to have a fit, and— What is it?""The woman!" gasped Maggie, with a little nervous catch in her voice. "Ah! why did I not think of her

before? She is his friend—Matthew Sleaford's friend, and why should she have written this letter, and in his interest lured Lady Gypsy away?""What are you talking about? To what woman do you refer?" exclaimed Mr. Meredith and Miss St. Quentin in one breath."To the woman who is with him—with Matthew Sleaford—at Thetford Castle even now," she answered agitatedly. "Oh, Cousin Sally, I was so excited when I came here that I forgot to tell you anything about it, but—but a strange and beautiful woman came to the castle to-day—came in company with Matthew Sleaford, and when I left they were closeted together in the library. Who the woman is I do not know, but I heard Matthew Sleaford say to the new housekeeper that the lady was an old friend of his, and had come to make a long stay at the castle. And, oh! might not she be the author of this letter, and may not our dear Lady Gypsy be in Sleaford's hands after all?"Excitement and consternation followed this announcement, but in the midst of it Jemima Ann spoke up and threw cold water upon the whole proceeding."Don't go stewin' yourselves for nothin'," exclaimed she. "That there woman didn't have nothin' to do with this letter—nothin' at all, I tell you! Cause why?—she didn't come here till this mornin', and the letter was wrote before Miss Gypsy went away last night, wasn't it?""Yes, but that doesn't prove she may not be in league with that scoundrel, child,""Yes, it does, too, Mr. Meredith, for Lord Desmond he was all broke
up with surprise when she stepped out and met him, and any one could
see with half an eye that she was the last person in the world he expected to meet when he came here and—""They met here, then—in this house?""Why, cert'nly! Met right downstairs in the main

hall this mornin', and I was there at the time," responded Jemima Ann,
and with this preface she proceeded to tell them all about Miss
Detheredge's visit to Deephaven Villa and what had resulted from it.Mr. Meredith had no difficulty in identifying the visitor after that.In the excitement which had followed upon the heels of his arrival at Gypsy's home, he had totally forgotten everything that had to do with Ada Detheredge, but his memory being spurred by Jemima Ann's words, soon brought back everything."Ah, I know, I know," he said, breaking in upon her remarks. "You are right, Jemima Ann; she could have had nothing to do with the forgery of this letter, for the writing is not in the least like hers. She is Gypsy's own cousin—my niece, Miss Detheredge—and she came down here to assist me in finding my child.""Yes, that's her—that's right. I remember now that Lord Desmond called her 'Ada,'" responded Jemima Ann. "But, gee! if she come here as a friend to Miss Gypsy, she didn't seem much broke up at the news of her disappearance, and, besides that, she was mighty willing to go off and talk over 'old times' with the marquis! Now that I come to think of it, she called him `'Matthew,' too, and, although he didn't seem very glad to see her, he marched her off to the castle as soon as ever she asked him to, and now Maggie says as she heard him tell the housekeeper that she was going to stay there.""That looks mighty curious, and I mean to investigate it thoroughly," Mr. Meredith said doggedly. "If Ada knew this Marquis of Desmond, how happens it that she never spoke of him before, and why did she not telegraph me the truth regarding my child's disappearance as soon as she learned of it? There is some mystery, some underhand dealing here, and, by Heaven! I will get at the bottom of it. How dare she,

a young, unmarried woman, brave the world's opinion by becoming the guest of a young unmarried man, and of all men the one who is my child's sworn foe? Have I been deceived in her all this time, and is the truth about to come out at last? I had only her word—only her unsupported word, that it was Gypsy and her husband who set upon and so nearly killed her that night at Newport, and now that I know the man my child married was not Hamilton Spread—oh, what am I thinking? Was it after all a cruel and infamous lie that Ada told me, and is her suddenly acknowledged acquaintance with the man who succeeded to the title left vacant by the death of Gypsy's husband—"Maggie Twyford suddenly uttered a cry, which drew all eyes toward her, and, turning, they saw her standing in the window with the forged letter held up so that the light shone through the written sheet."Look! look!" she cried, pointing to the faint outlines of a mailed hand holding a battle-ax that was watermarked upon the paper. "Ah! I can no longer doubt. See! this watermark, and"—drawing from her pocket a folded sheet of paper and holding that, too, up to the light—"and see it here again upon this note which my brother Ned, who is Sleaford's steward, sent to me by one of the servants yesterday to say that after all I would not be required to go to London to hunt up the coachman's reference, as I had been told. Look! the two sheets of paper are identical, the watermark is upon both, and I know now that this forgery emanated from the steward's lodge at Thetford Castle, and the same hand penned the two notes.""Maggie!""It is true, Cousin Sally; my brother Ned is the scoundrel who has decoyed Lady Gypsy away—my brother Ned, who is now Sleaford's tool and his own sister's enemy! Look! he has tried to disguise his hand in the forged letter, but lie has not wholly suc-

ceeded. Oh, it was Ned who wrote this letter, and it is Ned who has lured my lady away!""I know it! I said it was!" shouted out Jemima Ann in the midst of the excitement produced by Maggie's assertion and the proof with which she backed it up—a proof so conclusive that no one who compared the two notes could any longer doubt that the one hand had written both. "I knowed that he was at the bottom of it all. Where'll we find him? Where is he?""In London!" responded Maggie. "He went there early last evening and has not since returned. Oh, Mr. Meredith, lose no time, but fly to her rescue at once, and rescue her from my brother's hands. Do you not see? Do you not understand? This letter is not one which has been left behind as a blind. It is a clew—a real clew—and we are on the track of the truth at last. For Desmond House is a deserted house at present, and what better place could Sleaford and his confederate hit upon to hide her in than that? She is there—I feel and know that she is there—that she went there believing the letter to be from me, and if you only arouse the police and show this letter to them—""Give it to me, and I will search every house in London until I find her!" he broke in excitedly. "Come, Jemima Ann, come Miss St. Quentin. Oh, Gypsy! Gypsy! take courage dear, for the tables have turned at last!"CHAPTER XLIV.
THE CRY IN THE NIGHT.And, meantime, how had matters fared with Gypsy, who was left facing Ned Twyford in the dimly lighted room into which he had entrapped her, after her secret journey to Desmond House?Shocked by the sudden discovery of the steward's treachery, and by the cold-blooded calmness with which he laid the facts of the case before her and let her see how carefully all dews had been covered up, and all probability of pursuit and rescue entirely removed, the poor girl stood and looked at him for a moment in horrified silence.Then, with a sudden passionate outburst:"You villain!" she cried, retreating from him as from some pestilent thing. "After appealing to me in what you made me believe was your affliction, after getting me to do you a kindly act, you reward it like this, you cowardly villain! I wonder that you do not loath yourself for your treachery—I wonder that shame and self-hate do not make you as despicable in your own eyes as you are in mine."As she spoke a flush rose slowly to Twyford's face, and, spreading, stained it from brow to chin."Never mind what you think, Miss Montressor!" he said, partially bowing his head after the manner of a deeply humiliated man, and speaking in a voice of enforced calmness. "Perhaps some day you will have reason to view my actions in a different light, and to think me less of a scoundrel than you think me now. For the present, I can bear your taunts with the knowledge that I have played my cards well and won half my game, at least. You are here—in my power—and here you will remain until I choose to set you free."But beyond restraint you have nothing to fear at

my hands. You will be treated with the utmost respect; you will not be forced to face the indignity of being either bound or gagged; you will be supplied with books to beguile the hours of your captivity, and what your fancy dictates in the way of food you have only to mention to me, and I will procure it at once. If you look about this room you will perceive that I have anticipated your comfort in every way that it has been possible for me to do so. It belongs to the suite which the present marquis used to occupy in the days when he was only plain Mr. Matthew Sleaford, a penniless dependent upon the charity of the Desmonds, and, although there are other and more luxurious apartments—apartments which I would gladly have placed at your disposal had such a thing been possible under the circumstances—I selected this one because, being in the back of the house and overlooking nothing but a high-walled garden, it was possible for the window to be left open that you might be supplied with light and fresh air and yet run no risk of being recognized by any passer-by, should you show yourself at the barred casement.""Oh, this is outrageous—this is infamous!" exclaimed Gypsy,
with a fresh burst of indignation. "These are not feudal times,
Mr. Twyford, and your daring attempt cannot succeed. It is
preposterous to think that a girl can be carried off and kept a
prisoner in the very heart of London in this twentieth century. There
will be a search—in spite of all your cleverly contrived
plans. I tell you that my friends will search for me, will track me here, and, when they do, I warn you that it will be bad for you, you scoundrel!""I'll risk all that," he responded doggedly. "Before any one can track you here, my work will be accomplished, never fear. The day after to-morrow I shall give the deaf old caretaker a week's holiday, and shall return for a few hours to Thetford Castle to play my last card there. What that last card is, I do not choose

to tell you, Miss Montressor, but you will know of it in due time, I promise you. Be assured of one thing, however—you will never marry Lord Matthew Desmond now.""Marry Lord Matthew Desmond!" repeated Gypsy, with a sudden burst
of hope. "Is that the cause of your enmity toward me? If so, I tell
you frankly that you may release me this minute, and without dread of
anything of that sort. I do not mean to marry Lord Matthew
Desmond— never did mean to marry him, and if you will give me
my liberty I will promise—""Yes, we know all about that," interrupted Ned, with a jeering laugh and a total disbelief in her assertion that she had never intended to become Sleaford's wife, for had he not overheard her promise what she would do for Maggie when she had won her game and became acknowledged as the Marchioness of Desmond? "Spare yourself the trouble of making me any such a promise, Miss Montressor, for it will not induce me to change my plans. And now, as you are doubtless tired after your long journey, I wish you good night and pleasant dreams."With that he turned abruptly, unlocked the door, and by the time Gypsy had divined his intention, he had vanished, the door was locked upon the outside, the key withdrawn—and she was alone in the dimly lighted room.Once left to herself, her first thought was to seek for some means of escape—to ascertain if something had not by any possibility been forgotten, something left undone by the man who had entrapped her.Without pausing to consider where to begin such an investigation, she flew straight to the window and endeavored to gain some idea of her surroundings in that direction, as well as to ascertain if she really was so completely shut off from all communication with the outer world as Twyford had said.Vain hope! Even if the night had not been too dark and stormy for her to distinguish anything a dozen yards away, the steward had taken all precautions to prevent such an attempt as this.For it was only a small portion of the upper part of the sash that was open and unobstructed, all the lower part being securely boarded up, and the whole covered with a stout grating of thick wire, screwed firmly over the entire window in such a manner that it was not possible for any one to stand upon the sill and peer over the top of the boarded obstruction.In vain did Gypsy try standing on one of the several chairs with which the room was provided; she was still too short to see over the top of the barrier. In vain, too, did she try to drag forward the heavy center table that she might put a chair on top of that and gain altitude that way—clever Ned Twyford had screwed every large article of furniture in the room firmly down to the floor, and she could not budge them one hair's breadth.In despair she looked about her for some other, point of attack, but looked in vain.Beyond the half-boarded window, a curiously carved old oaken fireplace, with twisted pillars and a high wooden shelf, the door by which Twyford had taken his departure and a door—securely locked—which led to a connecting apartment, the walls were absolutely solid everywhere, and hope of escape faded.In utter despair Gypsy gave up the endeavor for that night at least, and, after washing off the paint with which she had disguised herself, and piling all the movable articles in the room against the door leading into the hall, partially disrobed, turned down the light, and threw herself upon the bed."It's no use!" she said, with a little pathetic catch in her voice," the rascal has caged me securely, and I can do nothing more to-night. I must wait until day-

light comes—until rest and sleep have soothed my nerves and sharpened my wits—and perhaps then I will be able to hit upon some plan to effect my escape. But, oh, what will Jemima Ann do when she wakes in the morning and finds me gone, and that seemingly heartless letter left behind, telling her I have abandoned everything and gone away forever? Oh, it will break her heart, and Heaven knows what she will do. Oh,, what a villain—what a subtle and crafty villain this Ned Twyford is, and how blind of me not to remember that the letter I wrote for him needed only the blotting out of the signature to appear to all the world as though it were indeed a letter from me. Oh, is there no escape possible? Will no help find its way to me?"She sat up suddenly and clasped her hands in prayer: "Desert me not in this dark hour; I beseech Thee, abandon me not to my enemies. Oh, Thou wert good to me on the sea, Thy hand guided me out of the depths and lifted me from the slough of despond—oh, give me a sign that it will guide me still, for I trust in Thee!"As she ceased speaking her clasped hands parted and her arms outstretched as if in the darkness of her despair she still had faith that other hands and other arms would lift and guide her, and so sitting, she waited for Heaven's response.The storm, which all along had been brawling and lashing the window with sheets of rain and gusts of wind, lulled suddenly as though the Voice that quieted the waves of Galilee had again said: "Peace, be still!" there came a sudden hush, a sudden cessation of every living sound, and then—faint through the darkness and the stillness of the house, there ran a sound that chilled her, thrilled her, and set every nerve and fiber quivering with mingled bliss and pain.A faint, wailing cry—a cry that was like a moan of anguish—that was the herald of it, and then a voice

whose accents made her senses reel, quavered out somewhere in the darkness:"Oh, Gypsy! Oh, my love! Oh, lost to me forever!"She started with one great cry and half rose to her feet."His voice!" she uttered in a voice of awe. "The dead has come back to me—the dead has spoken to me! It is his voice—Philip's voice—and he is here in spirit to watch over me!"Then a darkness shut down upon her senses, her half-raised figure sank suddenly back upon the bed and with a smile on her lips she quietly fainted away.CHAPTER XLV.
BEFORE THE STORY ENDED.When the morrow came—that morrow which was productive of so much excitement at Deephaven Villa, and was fraught with such consequences to Matthew Sleaford, Gypsy was up betimes and had begun anew the inspection of the room in which she was confined.A close scrutiny, by daylight, of the door which gave access to the adjoining room, convinced her that it was not only badly warped by time, but that the lock which secured it was both weak and old, and could, if she had only some implement to assist her, be easily forced.At nine o'clock Twyford brought up her breakfast, and, finding her
averse to talking—with the weakness of the lock in view she was
only too anxious to get rid of him as soon as possible—he
speedily beat a retreat and did not again intrude upon her until it
was time for luncheon. But in the interval between the two meals Gypsy
had been busy enough trying, with the aid of twisted hairpins, to pick the lock, although those useful little wires proved far too frail to move the clumsy mechanism of the lock. At luncheon she was no nearer to liberty than she had been at breakfast time.Something stronger than hairpins was required to move the bolt, and nothing stronger was to be found.When Twyford cleared away the luncheon dishes and again left her, she sat down to think over the situation.The one thing needful was a piece of iron or steel thin enough to be inserted into the keyhole and yet j strong enough to push back the bolt of the lock.Gypsy put her wits to work, and when Ned Twyford came up with her dinner she exploded the little train she had laid."You say I may have everything that is needful for my comfort?'
she-said. "Very well then, get me a buttonhook, for I am not in the habit of sitting with my boots unbuttoned all day.""Pardon me—I never thought of that," said Ned. "You shall have what you require, Miss Montressor, and have it immediately."So when he went out with the dishes he sent the deaf old caretaker to purchase the needed article, and soon Gypsy was in possession of it. By this time, as night was now falling, the gas in her prison was lighted; and as soon as she was alone, she thrust the steel end of the buttonhook into the flame and held it there until it was red hot.With the aid of the poker, she soon succeeded in straightening out the useless curled hook at the end of the useful little implement, and hammering it into the shape of the letter I, and then plunging it into a glass of water, "set" it in the desired form.Waiting for a time to make sure that the house was still, and nobody spying upon her movements, she hastened to the door of the connecting room, and sinking upon her knees, inserted the reconstructed buttonhook into the keyhole. With beating heart and tingling pulses, she worked and scraped at the lock—now feeling it move and anon feeling it slip back again—and at length, after repeated failures, she felt it slip from its socket without sliding back again the moment the position of the buttonhook was altered."Oh, it yields at last!" she whispered. "It moves—t glides—it will soon be open, and then—"Then the sentence ended with a sudden gasp; for, with the abruptness of a thunderclap, a mighty noise rolled suddenly up through the halls of the house—a mighty thundering of the knocker and a wild pealing

of the bell, and with it the faint, confused din of many voices raised in an excited appeal."Ah, Heaven! could anything be more unfortunate!" she cried out, in a voice of unspeakable despair. "Hark! some one is rushing up the stairs like mad, and I have not yet forced the lock of the door!"It was Twyford who was coming—that she recognized at once, for she could hear his excited outcries —and, pausing but a moment to pile all the chairs in the room against the door by which she knew that he would enter, she flew back to the other door and frantically resumed her attack upon it."Oh, if I can only open it!" she cried in her excitement. "He is coming—Twyford is coming. Some emissary of his has arrived, and if I do not escape him now—"Before the sentence could be completed another thundrous knock rolled through the house, another jangling of the bell made the echoes dance, and at the same moment Twyford reached the door.In the twinkling of an eye he had forced it open, had sent the chairs piled against it flying helter-skelter across the floor, and, like a madman, came bounding into the room.In one swift glance he saw Gypsy, saw what she was endeavoring to do—and with a cry sprang upon her and clutched her by the shoulder."Come away, come away!" he wildly panted, his face white as death and his eyes rolling like those of a hunted animal. "They have tracked me—found me—and my work is not yet done. Come away, I tell you, come away. We can reach the cellar and evade them even yet. Oh, silence, you madwoman, or you will ruin me in spite of all."For Gypsy, feeling his hands upon her, had suddenly sent up a piercing shriek."I won't go! I won't go!" she screamed, breaking away from him and rushing to the fireplace and wind-

ing her arms about the slim, twisted wooden pillars that supported the
mantelpiece. "Let me go, you coward, let me go! You shan't tear me out of this room. You shan't drag me to the cellar! Oh, help! mercy! help! Will no one save me from this monster?"As she spoke the wild thunder of the knocker and the fierce pealing of the bell again rang forth, and sharp on the heels of them—audible now that the door was open—pealed forth the sound of voices crying:"Open! open in the name of the law!""Oh, help at last!" shrieked Gypsy, as she heard those words. "My friends have tracked me—my friends have found me, and I am saved at last.""Silence!" roared Ned Twyford, as he grabbed her and tried to wrench her away from her hold upon the wooden supports of the mantelpiece. "Do you want to ruin me now? Come with me, come with me. I am not a villain—I am Maggie's brother—I am working for her good, and—oh, silence! silence! I implore!""I will not be silent!" she cried out wildly. "It is the police who are clamoring for admittance—the police, headed by my friends—and, wretch that you are, your time has come at last. Help! Help!"—raising her voice to a shriek that made the very echoes reel—"I am here—I—Sylvia Montressor—I—Gypsy Meredith—I—Philip Desmond's wife—Philip Desmond's widow—am here!"As she spoke Twyford dropped his grasp upon her arm and fell away
from her as though shot, a cry that was not the cry of the police rang
wildly and joyously down the deserted halls from the rooms above, and,
at the same moment, the door below fell inward with a cash and a
thunder of footsteps came rushing up the stairs."Gypsy! Gypsy! Where are you?" shouted out a

voice as the great rush came sweeping upward. "My child, my child, it is I, your father! Come, Jemima Ann; come, Miss St. Quentin; come, officers! My child is here—my child is here, for I have heard her voice. Up, up and let us save her. Oh, Gypsy! Where are you?"CHAPTER XLVI.
OUT OF THE CROOKED WAYS.Who shall describe the scene of panic and confusion which followed that outcry of Geoffrey Meredith's as he led the rescuing party up the staircase of Desmond House? Who shall give you even the faintest idea of how Jemima Ann yelled and screamed with joy as she recognized the sound of Gypsy's voice? Who shall describe how Gypsy felt when she realized that at the eleventh hour rescue had come and that at the head of the rescuing party—calling out to her in tones of love and solicitude, in words that clearly evidenced the fact that her secret was known to him and the past forgiven—was the father she had so long dreaded, and for whose forgiveness she had never dared to hope?As this blissful knowledge burst upon her—the knowledge that she was not only rescued, but restored at last to her father's love—Gypsy gave one great cry of happiness, one great spring toward the open door, and then, from sheer excess of joy, collapsed suddenly and fell fainting to the floor.Ned Twyford had made no effort to stop her when she flew toward the door; no effort to save himself, no movement to seek safety in flight. From the moment when she had cried out to the rescuing party, "I am here—I, Sylvia Montressor—I, Gypsy Meredith, Lord Philip Desmond's wife—Lord Philip Desmond's widow!" he had fallen away from her as though her words had stabbed him, and even now he stood as one rooted to the spot—stood and stared at her with widening eyes and a face of ever-deepening whiteness—ever-growing despair—and made not one movement to avert the threatening calamity, even though he now

knew that ruin was about to descend upon him and the end of his game had come.And beyond seeing that there was no possibility of his escaping from the room, nobody did waste any thoughts upon him; for all were claimed by his captive, and when Gypsy came back to consciousness, she found her head pillowed on her father's breast, found his arms around her, and Miss St. Quentin and Jemima Ann kneeling by her side and hugging each other in their excessive joy.A few words sufficed to tell her all that she wished or needed to know in reference to the means of her rescue, and the mystery of her father's presence on the scene, and when those few words were uttered she flung her arms about Geoffrey Meredith's neck and clung to him, sobbing and weeping like a happy child."Oh, my dear Jemima Ann! My good Gabrielle, my true, true friends, to have told him all!" she cried out, with a burst of happy tears. "Oh, father, father! forgive me for my wickedness in running away from you, but, oh, I loved him so, I loved him so! And now you know the truth, the blessed truth! He was worthy of my love—he was not Hamilton Spread's son, not the man you had sworn to hunt down. He was Lord Philip Desmond, father—as true and noble a gentleman as ever lived, and I was his wife, father, his wife.""I know—I know," he answered huskily, as he strained her to his heart and covered her face with kisses. "These dear, good friends of yours have told me everything, Gypsy. I know now that it was not Hamilton Spread's son you married, dear; but, even if it had been, I would have forgiven you, my child, for since last we met Heaven has opened my unworthy eyes and shown me how cruelly I wronged Hamilton Spread and how baseless were my suspicions of him and your dear mother, whom God has seen fit to restore to me.""Father!""It is true, Gypsy, true! I have found her, and we are one again. Oh, child! I know the truth at last.
If ever there was a true, good woman bound to a jealous and unworthy fool that woman is your mother, and if ever there was a saint upon earth that saint was Hamilton Spread! With his dying strength he tore the scales from my eyes, dear; with his dying hands he gave my darling back to me, and even now she waits at Deephaven Villa—waits with all a mother's anxiety—to clasp you to her bosom, dear child, and to tell you as I tell you that all your sorrows are over, the day of peace has dawned at last.""Dear mother—oh, take me to her, father, take me to her at once!" cried Gypsy, struggling to her feet. "Do you hear, Jemima Ann? Do you hear, Gabrielle? My mother lives—my mother lives, and so—"She paused abruptly, and from the heaven of her dreams came down to the stern realities. For her eyes had fallen suddenly upon Ned Twyford, where he still stood clinging to the wooden mantelpiece."Arrest that scoundrel—don't let him escape!" she cried out excitedly. "He lured me here—he! He is in league with my greatest enemy—Matthew Sleaford—now Marquis of Desmond; so bound to that wretch that he is willing to sacrifice even his own sister. Don't let him escape! Arrest him, officers, arrest him! I—Lady Desmond, accuse him of abduction, accuse him of aiding and abetting in a felony, and I charge you to arrest the scoundrel at once."At her command two or three of the officers moved briskly toward
Ned Twyford, and at sight of their advance the stony calm, which had
seemed to hold him until now, was rudely shattered and a great and sudden terror took possession of him. Winding one arm convulsively about the slender, twisted pillars that supported the carved oaken mantelpiece, with the other he wildly waved the officers back and turned upon

Gypsy the wildest human eyes and the whitest human face she had ever seen."No! no! Don't let them do it, my lady—don't, don't!" he imploringly cried, his voice in his anguish and despair rising almost to a shriek and the cold dew of horror gathering in clammy drops about his brow and lips. Oh, you are wronging me, my lady; I ant not a scoundrel—I am not Matthew Sleaford's ally. I am his secret enemy, and had I known what I know now, I would have cut my hands off sooner than lift them against you. I thought you were in league with him. I never dreamed of the truth, I never even vaguely suspected the truth! It was for Maggie I worked—for my poor, wronged sister, Maggie, who has been Sleaford's victim—and I swear to you that I never meant to injure you.""Rats!" shouted out Jemima Ann derisively. "Gee! but you're a
cuckoo, Neddy, you're the loveliest liar that ever lived. You are, but—it's no go! We are all of us more'n seven, we've all of us cut our eye-teeth, and you can't lie out of this scrape, if you keep on tryin' for a year. Collar him, coppers; collar him, and take him away to a nice, cool cell and give him a hair cut and a shave at the town's expense.""No! no! no! You must not!—you shall not!" shrieked Ned, clinging closer to the twisted pillars as the officers advanced. "Oh, my lady, my lady, don't let them do it. For Maggie's sake, I beg, I implore you to have mercy. If I am dragged away now, if my scheme is upset before I can force Sleaford to do my poor sister justice—""Oh, stop your howling!" struck in one of the officers, as he laid firm hands upon him. "You're run down, and you may as well die game. Come along, now, and come quietly, or if you won't—""I won't! I won't!—I swear that I won't!" broke in Ned, winding both arms about the pillar and cling-

ing to it with all his strength. "My lady, my lady, for your own sake, listen to me. Since you are Lord Philip's wife it is in my power to give you back what I have saved for you. Ah! they are tearing me away! Stop them, my lady, stop them! Recall your words, recall the charge you have made against me; give me mercy, my lady, give me the chance to right Maggie's wrongs and in return—"He was never permitted to finish the sentence.Perceiving that he could not be removed from the pillar to which he
clung save by the employment of force, two stalwart policemen joined
the first who had laid hands upon him, and, exerting their strength,
the three together gave his resisting body one sudden and powerful
jerk. His arms still clung about their feeble support, but against the
united efforts of three strong men, not only he but the pillar to
which he clung could not long offer resistance. At the second jerk the
twisted wooden pillar bowed suddenly outward, at the third it snapped
with a report like a pistol shot, and the man and his assailants went
down in one confused struggling heap. But not they alone, for lo! as
they fell there came a sudden crash, a sudden cloud of dust, and the
quaint, old-fashioned mantel lurched outward from the wall and fell
with them, leaving a broad, ragged gap along the wall above the
fireplace. In its fall it became the instrument of Heaven's justice.Clattering downward, the heavy wooden shelf swept harmlessly over Twyford's head and struck him free of his captors, and, as he struggled to his feet amid the clouds of dust and fallen plaster, out of that ragged gap, where it had been so long hidden, fluttered a discolored scrap of partly written, partly printed paper, and lay, face upward, upon his sleeve.He glanced at it, saw in that glance a name written upon it that sent the blood rushing to his face, and then with a gasp of incredulity, he grabbed it and read it eagerly."She was his wife—she was not his victim—she was and is his wife!" he cried out wildly, above the din and confusion. "Take me, you wretches, take me and do what you will with me, for my work is done at last. My sister is Matthew Sleaford's wife, and this blessed thing is the certificate of their marriage!"CHAPTER XLVII.
INTO MARVELOUS LIGHT.Had a bombshell exploded in the room it could have produced no
greater excitement."Let me see it!" cried Miss St. Quentin and Jemima Ann in a breath,
as they sprang toward him; but quicker than they, Gypsy was at his
side, and Gypsy's hand was stretched eagerly forth to grab the
precious paper."Give it to me!" she exclaimed. "I am her friend, and it should
come to her from my hands. It is the paper she needs, the paper she
has so long and vainly sought. Oh, man! if you are not a scoundrel,
give me that paper and I will believe in you, trust you, have mercy on
you, even though you may not deserve it.""I do deserve it, and I will prove it to you before many moments, my
lady!" he made answer "Ah, this blessed paper! It should come to her
from my hands as a proof of her brother's love, a proof of how cruelly
you and she have misjudged him—but it is you who have stood by
her while I have seemed to be a foe, and so take it, my lady. I
surrender it into your hands, and I beg of you to believe in me now
before I give you better and surer proof that you might have believed
in me always.""It is indeed the missing paper!" exclaimed Gypsy, with a happy
smile, as she exclaimed it closer. "Oh, the proof of dear, devoted
Maggie's honor is found at last, and she and I have come 'out of the
crooked ways' together. Oh, Ned Twyford, have we misjudged you after
all? Have we only been playing at cross-purposes through all this
weary time? and have you really been a friend when we were so certain
that you were an enemy?""Come with me and let my deeds answer that question, my lady," he
responded. "If you will withdraw your charge against me, and if I do
not prove myself a friend, I give you lief to tell these officers to
load me with chains and to drag me off to prison as the wickedest and
most treacherous of men!""I accept those conditions, and I do withdraw the charge,"
responded Gypsy. "But where do you wish to take me to receive the
promised proof?""To the room above this," he answered. "But have no fear, my
lady. I do not ask you come alone, and I do not mean to make this an
excuse for giving you the slip and making good my escape. Your father,
your friends and all these policemen, too, shall accompany us, and I
will show you the 'proof' of which I speak—a living proof, my
lady— a living and breathing proof that shall give you no
longer an excuse for doubting Ned Twyford. Will you come and receive
it with all your friends about you and the man who leads you to it,
well guarded by your father and the police?""Yes," she made answer. "I can scarcely doubt your sincerity when
you ask me to put it to such a test as that, and so lead the way, if
you please, and we will go at once.""Follow me," said Ned Twyford, after he had voluntarily put himself
between two of the police; then, without more ado, he bade the
constables turn on the light of their bull's-eye lanterns, and,
leading the way out of the room, walked slowly up the stairs.On the upper landing a long, slim box lay—a queer,
coffinlike thing with a perforated lid labeled "Statuary, handle with
care," and a lot of loose "bagging" thrown down beside it. Twyford
glanced at the box in passing, glanced and smiled—and then
taking a key from his pocket, led the way to a door at the end of the
passage."My lady," he said, as he slipped the key into the 

lock, and, turning, looked at Gypsy, "I beg of you to steel your
nerves and to be ready to face at once a very strange experience. In this room lies not a silent proof of my loyalty to the house of Desmond, but a living, breathing and yet, perhaps, a dying one!""Is it a human being you would show me?""Yes, my lady, it is a human being, but one in whom, perhaps, the light of reason has forever been extinguished by a cruel blow at the hands of one he trusted.""But who is he? What is he?""Oh, my lady, can't you think? Will not Heaven send a ray of light to lessen the shock of discovery? The sea gave him back and the hand of an assassin was stayed even after that. Oh, my lady, don't you suspect now? Think of the gladdest thing that could come to you; think of the strangest, sweetest thing that could happen; think whose living face would be the happiest sight your eyes could meet—think—""Open the door!" screamed out Gypsy, with a sudden burst of understanding. "Open the door, or Heaven will give me strength to beat it down. He lives, he lives! I know now, ah, I know at last!"As she spoke, Ned Twyford turned the key and thrust inward the door, and there in the light of the policemen's lanterns—there on a bed near the window—a bandage about his head and his face scarcely darker than the pillows against which it rested—there worn, wasted, but living still, Lord Philip Desmond lay.One instant only Gypsy paused on the threshold—her brain whirling, her senses reeling, her heartbeats seeming to choke her—then as a sob from Jemima Ann recalled her to herself, she uttered a low cry, and sped across the room like an arrow from a bow."Philip!" she cried, as she sank down on the bed, throwing her arms about him. "Philip, Philip, my husband—wake, wake and speak to me, dear, Oh,

father, father, he lives—my darling lives, and God as given him back to me again."Is there a power of necromancy in the voice of love?Whether his delirium had run its course and he would have waked to reason at this moment under any circumstances, or whether it was, indeed, the power of love that called him back from the borderland—no matter, this alone is certain: As Gypsy called upon him to awake, and her joyous outcries brought her father and her friends flying to his bedside, my lord, the marquis, suddenly opened his eyes, saw the crowd about him, saw and recognized the beaming face of his wife, and with one cry of rapture, started suddenly up from his pillow and threw his arms about her."Gypsy!" he cried. "Oh, my love! oh, my wife! It is you—it is! it is!""Yes, and for all time, Philip!" she answered, with a burst of happy tears; "for all time and all eternity—in this world and the next, dear—for love is immortal and defies even death."And then, from sheer excess of joy, she lapsed into unconsciousness, and his kisses fell upon lips that could not longer return them.Ned Twyford then briefly related how he, by feigning to be Sleaford's friend, had saved Lord Desmond from death and burial, and had brought him here. And then, when Gypsy revived, his story had to be told all over again; and, of course, when she heard it, she was profuse in her apologies to that long misjudged man, profuse, in her expressions of gratitude to him.Lord Desmond was for rising from his bed and braving all consequences by going at once to face his treacherous kinsman and establishing Gypsy's rightful position in the eyes of the world; but even if my lady and her father would not listen to such a hazardous step as this, there was still Ned Twyford to object to it: and my lord felt that, after all this excellent man

had done, he certainly had a right to have a voice its the matter. As the steward agreed with Gypsy and her father, his advice did not go unheeded."My lord, would you throw away your life after all that I have done to save it, and when you have still so much to live for?" he said earnestly. "If you were to bestir yourself now—if you were to risk excitement and exposure in your present weakened state, your life would not be worth an hour's purchase. No! you must not move—you shall not move, if I have to use force to prevent it. Now that there is no longer any cause for concealment, we must have a skillful doctor to attend you, and you must lie here until he says that you are fit to be moved.""Yes, but in the meantime Sleaford will have escaped, and, even if such a scoundrel does not deserve punishment, there are other reasons why I should deal sharply with him at once.""What other reasons, my lord?""Ah! don't you see? Don't you comprehend? In the eyes of the law I am a dead man, and he is my successor. The crown acknowledges him as the Marquis of Desmond; my bankers acknowledge him as the Marquis of Desmond, and as such his signature is everywhere honored. If I do not stop him before-hand, he will convert all my fortune into ready money, will fly with it, and my wife and I will be penniless.""Make your mind easy on that score," responded Ned Twyford, "for he shall not have the slightest hint of your existence until you are strong enough to confront him. I will swear the doctor who attends you to secrecy. I will visit your bankers the first thing in the morning and notify them of the truth—notify them to honor all reasonable drafts of Sleaford's until you are well enough to act in your own behalf, and to reveal your existence to him. In the meantime, I will return to Thetford Castle and act as though I were still his devoted confederate, and if my lady will only

write to my poor little sister, and under the seal of secrecy tell her the truth about me—""I will! I will!" interposed Gypsy."Very well, then, all the rest is easy," said Ned. "'Monsieur Henri Du Bois' shall resign his position and come to this house; my lady's mother shall come here and join you and her, and, as for Mr. Meredith, he shall simply disappear. From what I have this night heard I do not think that either his sister or his sister's daughter will trouble themselves to hunt for him, and so, every door will he securely closed until you, my lord, are ready to open them all and proclaim yourself. Jemima Ann will return to Deephaven Royals only long enough to tell Sleaford that she is convinced that her mistress has been abducted and carried off to America, and she is going there in quest of her; then she will leave Deephaven Villa and come back here to assist my lady until your lordship is well and strong, and the day of retribution has dawned! In the hands of the law"—turning to the police—"I leave all the rest. That silence and secrecy will be preserved regarding this night's revelations I can well believe, so you may—you must—rest here in perfect security, my lord, until Heaven in its goodness gives you back your health and strength and makes you again fit to stand up for my lady and yourself."
Against this plan—particularly as Gypsy would listen to no denial—my lord, the Marquis of Desmond, could offer no objection, and so it fell out that everything was conducted as the steward suggested, and Ned Twyford had his way. On the morrow he went back to Thetford Castle; on the morrow Gypsy's mother came in secret to Desmond House; on the morrow, too, "Monsieur Henri Du Bois" threw up his position at Thetford Castle and journeyed to the same place, and the net so skillfully woven about Matthew Sleaford, the usurper, began to close in and the end of the tragedy to approach.CHAPTER XLVIII.
A FOREGONE CONCLUSION.Thetford Castle was in a bewildering blaze of light, for my lord, the marquis, (?) was giving a grand ball in honor of his forthcoming marriage with the fair American, who, with her mother, had long been his guests.Six weeks had passed since the strange and sudden disappearance of Miss Sylvia Montressor, and society—which is blessed with a convenient memory—had almost, if not quite, forgotten "the actress," as she was somewhat contemptuously called, in whose honor the last grand affair at Thetford Castle had been given.Some few there were who still occasionally spoke of her, and avowed
their belief that they had at the time imagined that "the marquis
really was serious in his attentions, and had intended to make her his
wife," but older, and wiser heads said: "Gammon, my dear! Desmond's head is set on his shoulders right enough, and he knows his own business. Take my word for it, he never intended to marry her, and this matter of her disappearance is plain enough to those who read between the lines. He simply shipped her off, after he was tired of her, and there's the whole story of her disappearance in a nutshell. When it comes to a question of marriage, you observe he makes quite a different choice, and as an English nobleman should, goes in for a Yankee heiress with unlimited dollars to back up her remarkable beauty."For Miss Detheredge had been noised about as "an heiress," you understand, and English society, which has a strong and reverent love for American dollars, had received her as something quite charming, and "the county" had to a man and a woman accepted its invitations to the betrothal ball."Come along, mamma, let us go down, for I hear

the first carriage on the drive, and I wouldn't keep Matthew waiting at such a time for anything in the world," said the bride-elect, with a sneering laugh, to her mother as she shook out her glistening satin draperies and prepared to leave her boudoir. "It isn't every night in the year, you know, that a woman has the pleasure of receiving congratulations upon her betrothal to a man who has for five years or more been her lawful husband, and I mean to make the most of the experience."For Miss Detheredge had long since taken her mother into her confidence, and the story of the past had been openly confessed."Come along, then," said Mrs. Detheredge, adjusting her black velvet train. "Dear me, Ada, I can hardly realize the situation even yet; and if Geoffrey takes it into his head to turn up some time after his long and mysterious disappearance, what will he say when he finds you the wife of a marquis?""Let him say what he likes," responded Ada, with a shrug of her pearly shoulders. "What do I care? What do you care? He can't alter matters, can he?""No, of course not, but Gypsy could if she were to return.""Gypsy be bothered; she never will return! My adorable hubby hasn't said it in so many words, but I know well enough that he has taken means to put her out of the way for all that! So she doesn't worry me in the slightest. Come, let's go down, mamma, and think only of the triumph that is ours, and of the gorgeous entertainment where I shall be the bright particular star, and the observed of all observers. The Marchioness of Desmond says, 'Come down, Mrs. Detheredge,' and if you are not a stupid old silly, you will obey her."So down they went in their radiant happiness, and were soon in the thick of the fashionable crush.If Ada had longed for social success upon this par-

ticular night, her longings were certainly gratified; for never had she looked lovelier, and not even Gypsy's début at Thetford Castle had been a greater triumph.Thick and fast the carriages rolled up and the fashionable throng poured into the brilliant rooms. And if Matthew Sleaford had not actually hated the radiant creature who stood beside him graciously receiving the congratulations of his guests, he must have been proud of the success she scored; for everybody admired her, everybody admitted that she would make an ideal marchioness, and the gentlemen in particular raved over her lovely eyes and her golden hair.But suddenly there was a lull, suddenly the doors were seized from without and sharply closed—the footmen vanished, the guests were shut in, and from the grand corridor their floated dimly into the crowded rooms a noise that sounded like a subdued altercation.The guests arched their eyebrows and looked inquiringly at one another. This smacked too much of vulgarity! The future marchioness, shocked and annoyed, whirled and demanded of her future lord the meaning of this outrageous proceeding, and he, in amazement, growled suddenly back:"I don't know, but, by the lord Harry, I soon will! What's Twyford about to allow such a disgraceful thing at such a time as this?""Maybe some of the servants are drunk—it can hardly be guests who are creating such a disturbance," whispered Mrs. Detheredge. "See what it is, Matthew, and stop it.""I will," responded Sleaford, with a smothered oath. "Look to our guests, and I'll soon put a stop to this."A stop was put to it even as he spoke, and put in a manner that made everybody gasp and whirl sharply round, for without the slightest warning the doors were suddenly thrust open again and the voices of the footmen resumed their interrupted duties."The Right Honorable Mr. Felix Alwin and Miss Alwin," they announced, in loud tones. "Lord and Lady Penton, Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Meredith, Mr. and Mrs. Cecil Rawley, Miss Jemima Ann Meredith, Mr. Edward Twyford, and Mrs. Matthew Sleaford!"A cry rang through the length and breadth of the room as that last name was announced—a cry in which both Ada and the usurper indignantly joined—and as Sleaford sprang forward with an angry roar and glared in savage surprise at Mr. and Mrs. Meredith and Jemima Ann, and Mr. Cecil Rawley and his new-made wife, over the threshold stepped, in full evening attire, the form of his steward, supporting on his arm a slim, girlish figure arrayed in a gown of lavender silk, and with her lovely head bent demurely down."Twyford, my steward—by Heaven!" gasped Sleaford, as he fixed a glance of wrath upon Ned. "You rascal, what is the meaning of this?""It means that the time for unmasking has come at last, my worthy brother-in-law!" responded Ned. "It means that you have been my dupe all along; it means that my work is done, and I am here to introduce this clear girl upon my arm as your lawful wife. Look up, Maggie, my lass, look up, and let him see you!""Maggie Twyford!" gasped Sleaford, as she lifted her head and looked him straight in the eyes."Yes, Maggie Twyford!" she made answer. "Your villainy has met its reward, Matthew Sleaford, and the victim you thought you had seen the last of has run you to earth, and is here to proclaim herself your lawful wife.""It is a lie. I—I mean a falsehood," struck in Miss Detheredge excitedly. "Turn the woman out of the house, Matthew. Tell her to her face that she lies, and that she is not and never was your wife.""He will hardly be bold enough to do that, in the face of this convincing document," said Ned Twyford calmly. "Look at it, Sleaford—at a distance, if you

please! Look at it, and see how cleverly you have been run to earth. Wears well, doesn't it, for a simple bit of paper that has not been treasured. Shall I tell
you where I found it before I tell your friends here	what it is? Well, then, I found it tucked away behind the old oaken fireplace in the rooms you used to occupy at Desmond House, and—""Silence!""Oho! that takes the wind out of your sails, doesn't it? Ladies and gentlemen all," turning to the staring company, "I have the honor to announce to you that this little scrap of paper is the certificate of a marriage solemnized eight years ago between Mr. Matthew Sleaford and my sister, Maggie Twyford, and go—""Eight years ago!" shrieked Mrs. Detheredge excitedly. "Ada! do you hear that? He already had a wife when he married you in France five years since, and your union with him was illegal."The greatest consternation followed this inadvertent acknowledgment, and for the next two or three minutes everything was in a state of the wildest confusion."Ho! ho! so that is how the cat jumps, is it?" cried Geoffrey Meredith, addressing himself to Ada. "You were already his wife, and this precious sister of mine is in this game with you, eh? Well, I shall know how to drop both you and her after this, you miserable pair of schemers!"But Ada never noticed him. She was too wild with excitement to do aught but cling to Sleaford and implore him to deny the truth, and he, with an eye to the main chance, thought only of conciliating Twyford and sealing his lips before he made any darker revelations."It is true—it is true—I admit it," he said glancing imploringly at his ex-steward. "I have behaved badly, but it—it is never too late to mend. Ned, dear old Ned, I acknowledge the truth. The marriage was

legal; your sister was and is my wife, and—and—Maggie, dear, come to me and forgive me."As he spoke he reached out his arms to her, but with a fierce, impassioned cry, Ned Twyford waved him back."It's too late for that sort of thing now!" he cried. "You've killed all the love she ever had for you, and, even if you hadn't, I'd shoot her dead before she should ever go back to you. Coward! usurper! assassin! do you think you can make peace with me?""Ned, dear, Ned, don't speak—don't—don't, I beg you! I'll make you rich if you seal your lips.""If riches could seal my lips, will they seal these?" said Ned, turning to the door. "Without there! send in the officers, you lackeys, and announce your last guests."As he spoke the doors again flew inward, a posse of police filed into the room, and, at the same moment, the voices of the footmen called joyously, "My lord and my lady, the Marquis and Marchioness of Desmond!"A shriek rang through the rooms as he spoke—a shriek from Sleaford, who saw them before others did—and then, amidst the wildest confusion, they stepped forward and the last bolt fell. Garbed in a trailing gown of rich ivory white satin, her fair throat and her lustrous black hair ablaze with diamonds, the pseudo "Miss Sylvia Montressor" appeared again before those who had thought they had seen the last of her, but appeared this time leaning upon the arm of a pale, handsome man, whose coming was the cue for a universal panic.In one glance every soul in the room recognized him and cried out, "Desmond," but none more wildly than Matthew Sleaford."Philip!" he shrieked, staggering back as from a specter. "Philip Desmond alive! Great heavens! Philip Desmond alive?""Yes, alive, you scoundrel—alive, you would-be murderer, and come back to claim his own!" responded my lord passionately. "Come back with his bride—his dear, beloved bride, whom you would have cheated had Heaven permitted you to do so. Wretch! it was Ned Twyford who saved me from your murderous hands; Ned Twyford, who fooled you into believing that you had killed me, and that he had buried my body in the ruins of the keep. But I live, you see—live to defeat your infamous schemes."Suddenly, startlingly, and with a din like thunder, there rang forth a pistol shot—a flash of flame blazed forth, a puff of smoke went curling upward, and when the crowd, dividing with a shriek of horror, fled to right and left, there on the floor lay Matthew Sleaford."Cheated us, by Jupiter! We've had our journey here for nothing!" exclaimed the head constable, as he and his colleagues rushed forward and bent above the suicide. "Who'd have thought of his having a pistol about him at such a time as this? My lord, the case is closed, and there's nobody left to prosecute but these two women.""Let them go—they are my wife's relatives, and I will not appear against them," he answered, as he wrapped his arms about Gypsy and held her close while she hid her pale face upon his shoulder and leaned her shuddering form against his bosom.And so the tale ends as every good tale should end—in the triumph of virtue and the downfall of vice.Years passed since that tragical night, and neither Miss Detheredge nor her mother were ever again heard of, for not only Mr. Meredith, but Lady Gypsy as well, were far too human to feel that they could ever forgive them, and so they let them go their ways and never wasted another thought upon them.But with those who had stood her friends she took a vastly different course.She did not let the "dignity of position" stand in

her way, so far as Cis Rawley and his dear, good little wife were concerned, and, contrary to precedent—for marquises and marchionesses are supposed to be above that sort of thing—she and her husband agreed that she owed it as a duty to the Rawleys to stick to her engagement and appear in the much-advertised revival of the "Princess Mirza."So she went back—with added prestige—to the stage for another season, and when she finally retired for good and all, had the satisfaction of knowing that she had made Cis Rawley's fortune, and so, in a measure, repaid her debt to him and his wife—both of whom always were counted among her dearest friends.Upon Maggie Twyford Lord Desmond settled an annuity, and then appointed her to the post of upper housekeeper, and kept her in his service until she finally left it to become the wife of a handsome, well-to-do young farmer, who, to quote Maggie's own words, "is as good as gold and repays her a thousand-fold for all the misery she suffered in the past at Matthew Sleaford's hands."Mr. and Mrs. Meredith took up their residence at the castle, since Lord Desmond wouldn't hear of anything else.Ned Twyford remained there, too, in his former position as steward, but enjoying three times the salary that any similar steward ever received before. Although he still occupied the steward's lodge, he no longer did so alone, for the years that passed brought changes to him as well as to others, and he no longer was a bachelor, but a husband and a father. He mar-

ried Jemima Ann, precisely ten days after the bells of Deephaven Church rang out to tell all the world that an heir to Thetford Castle was born and the race of Desmond was continued in the direct line.THE END.No. 1147 of the NEW EAGLE SERIES, entitled "Love Given in Vain," by Adelaide Fox Robinson, is a charming story in which wealth and love contend for the mastery, the victory being won by true love, which brings the happiness desired.Back cover of Falsely Accused.