The Bishop had escaped alone to the library, and could not find the news sheets, which generally arrived before dinner. He was irritable and worried, and Grey fled to fetch the papers from the servants' hall, where they had a habit of being conveniently forgotten until sent for. He wanted to see the result of the brewery case, upon which so much depended for Jack; and when they arrived he opened them with more agitation than he would have cared to admit. Jack's income and marriage would be affected by the result of the great dispute about the quality of beer. Aunt Caroline's attitude was only too clear; nothing was to be expected for Jack from that quarter. Her antipathy to Mr. Bannister was almost insulting and quite disheartening.

It would have mattered less if Mr. Bannister had improved upon acquaintance--which he did not. The Bishop liked him less and less. He resented the fellow's curious, possessive, ogling way with Hester; and Mabel did not seem to have much affection for him. He suspected his guest of poking fun in his stories; and he was sure that Hester's feelings toward him was not cordial. Caroline's opposition to the match would mean a possible loss of thousands to the boy, and he could hardly hope to marry yet without an improvement in his finances.

The evening papers reported the brewery case at great length, and at the end of the report were the irritating words. "Case proceeding." A glance at the "Stop Press" column was more satisfactory. "Brewery Case. After speech for defence, verdict for defendants without leaving box."

Jack had won. The Bishop laughed aloud with joyous pride.

"Hester, my darling, Hester!" he cried, hurrying out into the hall, "Jack has won. There are three columns of it in the paper. He's won. There's something in the boy, after all. It'll mean work for him for years, and he will be made the company's legal expert. Caroline, Jack's fortunes are looking up. An excellent start. Mabel, my dear, why don't you look more pleased to hear of Jack's good fortune? He'll be home to-morrow, perhaps to-night."

Mabel, who had just left her father after giving him the key of Voss's prison, met the Bishop at the foot of the stairs; but she was moving like a sleep walker, with features turned to stone. He spoke to her again, and she woke up with a start, and answered mechanically. Her mother saved the situation by expressing exaggerated joy, and seizing the paper boisterously. She explained the case to Aunt Caroline, who only sniffed her approval, and expressed nothing in words.

The Bishop drew his wife into the library, and shut the door carefully.

"Hester, what is the matter with Mabel?"

"Oh, nothing; a little glum and depressed without Jack, that is all."

"Then why isn't she glad to hear he is coming home? What is going on in the house among you women? There's something."

She fidgeted with the paper, and took refuge in a lie.

"It is Caroline. She is upsetting everybody, and making us all wretched."

"Then I shall speak to Caroline. It must stop."

"No, no. It will pass. She has sense enough to see that Jack doesn't care a fig for her money, and will be quite independent of her soon. She will find her level presently."

"She must find it now," cried the Bishop, as he strode to the door excitedly. "Caroline, I shall be obliged if you will step in here a moment."

His wife fled. She sought her daughter, who was sitting in the drawing room with hands clenched on her lap and a look on her face that was alarming. She made no answer when spoken to, but stared like one in a trance. She was almost at the end of her tether, and having declared war on her father, felt that the time had come to act. Something must be done; she could not remain here.

Her mother gave one stealthy glance round to make sure they were alone, then flung her arms about the girl.

"Oh, my child, my child!" she cried, as Mabel thrust her away coldly without the slightest response. But the woman clung close, and, in thrusting her away, the girl's hand touched the heavy necklace. She drew off as if burned by the contact, and gazed at the gems in horror.

"Why did you wear them; oh, why did you wear them? You know what he is--you know what he is."

"Hush, hush, they are safe with me."

Meantime a lively scene was in progress in the library. Aunt Caroline had obeyed her brother's summons, and was listening, apparently unmoved, to his halting complaint.

"Caroline, you are disturbing the peace of this house."

"Oh!"

"Yes, you are upsetting Hester, Mabel, and Mr. Bannister, and--and myself. Your unreasoning dislike of our guest is too obvious--much too obvious. You are aggressive, Caroline, and aggressiveness in a woman is a--a very unpleasant thing."

"Oh!"

"You are interrupting the harmonious interchange of family courtesies, and--and making conversation almost difficult. You spoiled my dinner."

"Oh!"

"Hester is placed at a considerable disadvantage, I might say a most unfair disadvantage, and her efforts to keep peace with everybody must be quite obvious to her guests. It will embarrass them. The girl is already quite miserable, and your manner to Mr. Bannister is--well, I should call it insulting."

"Oh!"

"Evidently the happiness of my household is no concern of yours, Caroline, and you want to make my boy unhappy."

"Humph!"

"Don't stand there muttering--I had almost said grunting," cried the Bishop, losing all patience.

"I'll sit down. Have you anything more to say?"

"Anything more? I could say a great deal, but I am desirous of sparing your feelings in a Christian spirit and making allowances for your absurd disapproval of the girl of Jack's choice. It is cruel to the poor child."

"I don't disapprove of the girl."

"Then why in heaven's name this display of antagonism?"

"I have told you--her father is a rascal."

"What have your absurd notions about Mr. Bannister got to do with Jack, I should like to know? Jack didn't choose his father-in-law."

"No, but you did for him."

"Caroline, you annoy me. You irritate me beyond endurance. I won't have an amiable gentleman traduced in this fashion."

"Oh, an amiable gentleman! He is a great deal too amiable. Are you blind, John? Can you sit at the table and see him devouring and ogling your wife before your very eyes? Can't you see the glances that pass between them?"

"Caroline, Caroline! How dare you? This is sheer wickedness, engendered by hatred--malicious, unreasoning hatred. How can you stay under this roof and harbor such thoughts?"

"My stay under this roof is by no means pleasant. But here I am, John, and here I remain until I have unmasked that villain, and solved the mystery of his influence over Hester. She's afraid of him. She obeys him. She fainted when she first saw him. Yet she is willing to wreck your son's happiness by bringing this smooth-voiced villain into the family."

"Have you no more vile insinuations?"

"Yes, plenty. What was the girl doing in Jack's chambers unattended? What sort of bringing-up has she had? Why is Hester in such a hurry to marry them?"

"Caroline!"

"Oh, I don't mince matters."

"Do you dare impeach the girl's honor?"

"Oh, no, it isn't that. But I've been thinking. How do you know that Jack isn't married already?"

"Caroline, you are mad."

"If I am, then Jack must be a contemptible scamp and the girl a fool, or--worse."

"I command you to be silent, you--you foolish, wicked woman!" thundered the Bishop, shouting at the top of his voice.

"That's right, abuse me and insult me, and refuse to hear both sides of the case. That's your practical Christian charity, I suppose. Perhaps you'll explain to me why Jack was in the girl's room here at midnight--and Hester too?"

"They are lovers. Hester was there, too, you say? What was there wrong in that? Can't a man go to his affianced wife's room in the company of his step-mother?"

"But he didn't go in the company of his step-mother. She went and fetched him out of the room because his father wanted to talk to him. I heard her."

"At midnight?"

"Or thereabouts."

"Pshaw! These are the delusions of a jealous, suspicious--er--evil-minded--prying--spinster. I won't have it, I say. It shall stop, or I shall ask you to leave my house--do you hear?--leave the house."

The Bishop was white with passion, and spluttered out his words.

"Can you find no worse reproach for me than 'spinster?' Oh, I can tell you that I know what I am talking about. I've not lived the life of a cloistered nun, and I've not gone through life with my eyes shut because I happened to be a woman. I am not such a fool that I don't know that circumstances may arise, perfectly innocent ones, when such unconventional doings are imperative; but the necessity is always extraordinary; and there is something extraordinary going on in this house now."

"Caroline, don't shock me any more. You have tried my patience too much--you--you--Silence! Let me speak. Let me tell you----"

His words died on his lips, and his eyes seemed to be starting out of his head.

"John, what is the matter, what is the matter? Don't gasp like that. Get your breath, John!"

She screamed her appeal, inspired by an awful terror, and ran towards him; but before she could put out a hand he had measured his length upon the floor with an awful thud, and was fighting for his breath as though choked by unseen hands.

She tried to raise him, but his great weight made it impossible, and in her panic she rushed from the room to call for assistance.

The sudden opening of the library door disturbed two people who were standing in the shadow of the staircase. Lady Hester sprang away guiltily from the man at her side, who was clasping her hand, and would not be shaken off. His back was to the library door, and he had not seen it open. Bannister, reckless and masterful, had met her at the foot of the stairs and detained her for a few minutes in animated conversation.

Aunt Caroline saw it all in a flash; but this was no time to notice the details. She screamed for help, and Lady Hester rushed in, followed by Bannister, and later by Mabel and the servants.

The women were helpless, but Bannister raised the Bishop and placed a cushion under his head and revived him. A doctor was sent for, but by the time he arrived, the old man was conscious and recovering. His wife knelt by his side, and her deep concern was written in her face. Aunt Caroline sat by weeping silently in remorseful humiliation. When she addressed her brother he refused to answer, and ignored her.

The doctor declared that complete rest was necessary for his patient. All engagements must be cancelled. Overwork, overmuch traveling, and excitement were at the root of the mischief. Lady Hester was able to forget herself and her own troubles; but she burned with indignation against Caroline, whom she regarded as the author of the mischief. High words between the brother and sister were not uncommon; but Caroline had been particularly trying of late. How well the old lady's distrust of Bannister was justified she alone knew; but the interference was resented none the less.

At midnight, when the Bishop was put to bed, the doctor was going away. Miss Cardew intercepted him at the front door and put a gentle hand upon his arm. Her face was pale, her eyes sunken with weeping and anxiety, and her hand trembled on his sleeve.

"Tell me--tell me the truth," she whispered.

"It is serious, madam. But we must hope for the best. Rest is the only thing."

"Tell me, without reserve. I am his sister. It is important."

The doctor looked at his boots and shuffled uneasily, making nervous patterns on the mat.

"Tell me, was it a stroke?"

The doctor nodded and went out, leaving her alone in the darkened hall.

She wrung her hands above her head and appealed to heaven for forgiveness. She looked upon the visitation as a punishment for her jealous and unchristian prejudice. Then, as she turned to go upstairs and passed the spot where, at the very moment of her brother's physical agony, she had surprised Bannister and Lady Hester, hand in hand, and whispering in the shadow like lovers, her heart hardened again.

"It is her fault--it is all her fault! If he had never married her----" Sobs stifled the rest.

She crept upstairs, bowed and broken. The night's emotion had been too much. Like her brother, she was no longer young. She comforted herself with the thought that Jack would come home on the morrow, and the Bannisters would surely be sent away now that their host was ill.

The lights down stairs were all extinguished, except in the smoking room, where Mr. Bannister was alone, and having a final cigar before retiring to rest. He was a late bird, and generally the last to retire in any house he visited. She was half inclined to go in and tell him bluntly that he must depart; but her courage was not equal to it to-night. She had caused enough havoc by her interference.

The lights were out in the upper corridor, too; but the doors of Lady Hester's bed and dressing rooms were both open. She saw her brother's wife come into the dressing room from the Bishop's bedroom, and close the door softly behind her, then walk on tiptoe to the maid in the dressing room to tell her to move softly, because the Bishop was asleep. Then she came to the door of her bedroom, looking like a ghost, and stepped out on to the darkened corridor just as Aunt Caroline was passing. She gave a little cry of fright.

"Oh, how you startled me!"

"Is he any better?" asked the elder woman humbly.

"He is sleeping quite peacefully now. The doctor says that is what is necessary."

"Shall I sit by him?"

"No, no; he is to be left quite alone. Your presence is not likely to soothe him, I should think."

Hester retired into her room and shut the door with more rudeness than she had ever shown before.

The old lady stood quite still in the darkness for a few moments, then covered her face and wept quietly. She was willing to forgive Hester or anybody else if only they would allow her to go to her brother's side. To be forbidden made her feel like a murderess. She paced up and down the dark corridor, wringing her hands and dropping hot tears, and occasionally stopping and listening outside her brother's door to catch the slightest sound.

She had been there some time, moving about in the darkness like a shadow, when the door of Lady Hester's room opened, and the mistress of the house appeared silhouetted against the light coming from within. She had changed her dress for a loose gown--a very becoming one--and looked strangely effective in the beam streaming through the open door. After a moment's hesitation, she descended the stairs into the darkened house. This was Caroline's opportunity to slip in and question the maid for further news of the patient, but before she reached the door another flicker of light in the hall below reminded her that Bannister was still down stairs.

Lady Hester sped swiftly down, making for the smoking room. The old lady craned her neck over the gallery above, and caught a glimpse of Bannister in an arm chair as the door opened, then it shut, and there was darkness and silence. Jealousy, suspicion, prompted all sorts of evil thoughts. This infamous woman, who was flirting with her guest at the very moment of her husband's seizure, was not to be deterred even now from keeping an assignation with the rascal.

On the other hand a moment's thought told her that it was only natural for Lady Hester to acquaint her guest with the progress of affairs. But why go down in that costume?

Two minutes--five--ten passed, and the door remained closed. The house was wrapped in silence, and the old lady, leaning over the banisters, grew impatient. She had interfered enough for that day, but she was convinced that evil was afoot. She could not tear herself away. Twice she tried to go to her room and close the door and pray to God for charity. But each time an overwhelming feeling of responsibility took her back again to the gallery.

* * * * * * *

The scene in the smoking room was rather different to that conjured up in Aunt Caroline's brain.

The place was a small snuggery dignified by the name of smoking room because it was used by Jack and his father for the smoking of briar pipes, which were forbidden elsewhere. In reality it was a winter sitting room largely used for writing, and as a relief for the Bishop when he desired to escape the rather pompous surroundings of the official study. It contained a couple of holland-covered grandfather chairs, a large lounge, and a writing desk stowed away in a corner. In winter a bright fire burned in the grate; but at this time of the year flowers filled the hearth.

Bannister rose with alacrity as his wife entered, and he flung away his cigar.

"Well, and how is he?"

"He is better. He is sleeping. Please let us discuss him no more. What have you to say to me? You must know that I cannot stay long."

Her words came sharply; her eyes flashed. She was in no mood for half measures.

"It is good of you to come, Hester. Sit down. Please look as though you were going to be amiable. I want to be friends with you--not to quarrel."

"We finished friendship and we finished quarrelling years ago."

"What is it to be now, then--fighting? My dear Hester, you are not equal to it. You are agitated and excited. Do sit down."

He drew an arm chair forward, but she chose a high chair by the round table and sat bolt upright, watching him.

He took up a position on the hearthrug with his back to the grate, and lighted another cigar, as though he were going to settle down to a long interview.

"We have no time to waste. What is it? Tell me what you have to say."

His eyes missed nothing, and his attention was diverted to her gown. "A charming robe," he murmured, nodding approvingly. "It reminds me of the one you wore at the hotel in Marseilles--you remember, the big, ugly, white hotel--and the big room with the hideous, red satin panels, where we had such fun; when you mimicked the bellerina at the local opera house--do you remember?"

"If you have brought me here to listen to reminiscences, the sooner I go upstairs the better."

She moved towards the door, but he was too quick for her. He caught a flying ribbon of her robe and drew her back. His touch seemed to mesmerize her, for she collapsed into the chair again. He himself dropped down on the arm of the lounge close by.

"Business, then, my dear wife."

"Hush!"

"This illness of your husband's--is it serious?"

"I don't know. From what I can gather, he has been quarrelling with his sister about Mabel and the marriage."

"Well, his quarrelling won't alter the marriage. The young people are tied up--as tightly as we are. Do you expect me to go like a polite guest because my host has fallen ill?"

"Yes, of course--the sooner the better."

"I am sorry, my dear Hester, but I am not so conventional as to clear out. I am one of the family. My concern for the dear Bishop's health compels me to remain. I could not rest at a distance. I should be consumed with feverish anxiety."

"How dare you jest and sneer!"

"Do you think I love the old boy? You cannot expect me to share your affection. The pompous old fool----"

"How dare you!" she cried, clenching her hands, and losing all dignity in her anger.

"There, there, I was only chaffing. I suppose it is natural for you to feel that you owe him some special consideration after having deceived him all these years. But you are still young, Hester, and so am I--never felt younger than when I looked upon your face the other night and saw that there were no wrinkles in it, that the eyes remained bright and beautiful, that the hair kept its wonderful color without scientific aid, and that the lissom waist was as supple as ever. Egad, Hester, it's good to live and stand opposite you--no, not opposite, beside you. Keep still; be quiet. It's no good your making a scene."

She stood petrified, and watched his approach as a rabbit watches the oncoming of the boaconstrictor. Her lips parted, and she fully intended to cry out; but the house was painfully still; there was an invalid upstairs, and Aunt Caroline was not far away. A scene would only make horrible complications. She shuddered and collapsed, and struck at him as his arm slid round her waist and he drew her to him. She was limp and swaying like one about to faint. But he put his other arm about her, and her head fell back. The color fled from her lips, her eyes closed, and for a few seconds unconsciousness would have supervened; but he pressed kisses on her lips, and she made a last choking resistance.

He put one foot on the arm of the low chair to better support the weight she had flung upon him, and with his one disengaged hand softly caressed her hair.

"Ah, that's better, that's better. The old Hester was never a fool, and always ready to take the gifts the gods sent her without complaining. Hester, my lovely, adorable Hester, do you hear what I say?"

She passed one hand across her eyes, and looked up into his so close to hers. She seemed to realize and struggled to be free; but he held her close in a fierce, passionate embrace, till her bosom heaved with his and their breaths mingled.

"Don't--no--I shall scream."

He let her go rather suddenly, and guided her to the lounge chair. She dropped all in a heap and crumpled up, with her elbows on her knees, and her face hidden in her hands. Nothing seemed to matter now. Her brain was turned to cotton wool, the ground below was swimming, and hammers were beating on her temples.

He returned to his smoking and lighted a cigar with a sigh of evident satisfaction. "Ah, I knew you would be sensible," he murmured between the puffs, "I asked you to come down and talk to me that we might come to some pleasant arrangement. I've not the slightest desire to wreck your eminently respectable life. I feel to a certain extent responsible for the present situation, and I want to assure you that there is no immediate cause for anxiety, or hysterical consternation, or frantic heroics. You've got over your surprise. You must accustom yourself to look upon me as the father-in-law of Jack, the Squire of Dingle Hall, and--your husband's best friend."

She swayed from side to side, and seemed to be paying little attention.

"Do you hear what I say, Hester?--your husband's best friend, with all privileges."

"I heard. You have said it or insinuated it before. I am not so vile as you imagine."

"Yet you married the Bishop, so I understand, without any whisper of a previous husband, dead or alive."

She moaned and sobbed monotonously.

"Ah! I see, we are not so immaculate. My scrupulous Hester can swallow her scruples sometimes. Well, if you could rise to such heights of--er--shall I say deception in the days of youth and folly, in your more mature worldliness, surely you can see the expediency of not raising a frightful scandal in the diocese--through all England, in fact."

"I know, I know."

"In short, you must bow your head to circumstances--the circumstances being my sovereign will and pleasure. For once in a way I find myself a husband with absolute control of his wife."

He paused, and examined the lighted end of his cigar, hugely enjoying his sneer.

"What are your terms?" she asked coldly, and with rather disconcerting calmness. She dropped her hands and clasped them before her and looked with unseeing eyes into the screen of ferns in the grate.

"You put it crudely, Hester, as though I were a mercenary person."

"You have not come here for me. You have another object. You have worse designs."

"I am glad you admit that a man can do worse than desire his own wife."

"Enough of that!" she cried, rising to her feet again, and facing him with passionate disdain. "You have come here to steal, to follow your profession to the detriment of your daughter's future. You have come here for my emeralds."

"And may I ask who is your informant?"

"Your own child--our child. Oh, Dick, for God's sake, show a spark of manhood. Have you no moral sense, no heart, no conscience? Must you ruin your own child's happiness?"

He winced a little and stared at the ground, frowning and biting his mustache savagely. His eyeglass dropped from his eye, and he looked really villainous.

"So my daughter was your informant. That's a lie. It was you who gave me away to the child. It was you who betrayed me. That was what decided me to give you no quarter when it came to fighting. I have kept the girl's hands free, so far, and her mind, too. I don't think she would lie to her husband, for instance, as you lied to yours."

"I never lied!" she cried weakly and piteously, wringing her hands in a manner that revealed the spot in her armor through which he could pierce her to the very soul.

"Why have you poisoned Mabel's mind against me?"

"I did nothing of the kind. She knows you for what you are. She warned me that you had come down here to steal my emeralds."

"Indeed! I beg to doubt your word."

"It is true. She overheard you discussing the matter with your man."

"With Voss? The fool!" Bannister cursed Voss below his breath, and it was a few moments before he could recover his composure. He shrugged his shoulders cynically.

"Well, well, since you know why I am here, there is no further need for warning on my part. I did come down for your exquisite emeralds; but I almost changed my mind when I found a jewel of my own in the house that was more precious than a thousand gems convertible in Amsterdam."

"What is the meaning of your elaborate fraud about Dingle Hall, and your talk of allowing a thousand a year to Mabel? It is all a hideous swindle, of which you are making me and your child the victim. You are a devil in human shape. You are not fit to live."

"Hush! No hysterics, please. I am merely contemplating an early retirement from business, like a wealthy stock broker, or a fat Bishop, or any other plunderer of the public. I told you years ago that I should weary of my adventurous life. I have plundered almost as successfully as--as a Bishop; but unfortunately my income is not enough to allow me to live at Dingle Hall and keep up a position sufficiently dignified for the father-in-law of Jack Cardew. I cannot allow my daughter a thousand a year without feeling the pinch. I would willingly spare her that amount, if I had it--but I haven't. You have, though, Hester."

"My own income is nothing," she cried. "What can I do?"

"No, but your jewels are worth a great deal, and would supply the deficiency--if they were turned into cash."

"What do you mean?" she exclaimed. "What are you suggesting? I turn them into cash--for Mabel?"

"Not that you should pawn them--oh, dear no, that would be too risky. But if they were stolen in the night, say--well then----" He looked uneasily towards the door, and came and bent over her. "Such things are best talked of in the open air."

He put out a hand to touch her, but she drew back as from contamination, and gazed at him in horror.

"You expect me to do this!--to consent to rob my husband?--I would die first. You can't mean it?"

The look of helpless terror on her face was pitiable. He was a little sorry for her.

"No, Hester, I won't ask you to do it. I'll give the whole thing up, if you like. I don't want the dirty emeralds. I'd rather have you. You are worth more than all the jewels in the world. You're in a hopeless position--you must see it. You can't go on living here. Fling it all up, and come away with me. I'll give up the old game. I've got enough for both of us. We can have an easy and comfortable time--a respectable one, too, if you wish it. Come--you are mine. You are the old sweet darling."

He clasped her in his arms and held her to him in an iron grip. She closed her eyes as if in pain, and her breath came in gasps, but she neither resisted nor listened.

He lost all control of himself.

"Hester, Hester, I let you go once because I loved you. I'm going to take you back for the same reason."

"You will never take me back. I would rather die. I have sunk low enough in my own estimation. Let me go--oh, have pity--don't drive me to suicide!"

"It will be social death, Hester, any way, as far as your life here is concerned. We didn't have such a bad time in the old days. I might have pulled round if you hadn't left me. With your influence I could have achieved anything. Come, come--look up. You are mine--mine--and you will be to the end of the chapter. Mine. No, don't struggle. I shan't let you go. You are in my arms now, and I mean to exert my power. No; take your hands from your face. I mean to kiss those red lips as I used to--do you remember?--till the blood was driven out of them. Yes, I will--you must surrender--promise me that you will be my own sweet Hester--just for one second--and I'll let you go." He kissed her savagely till she gasped for breath.

"Release me, or I'll call for help."

"I tell you I won't. I shall surrender you at my pleasure. My God; your body thrills me as no other woman's ever did. No, I'll not surrender you without one willing, answering kiss. Hester, do you hear what I say? Raise your lips to mine in the old way. Kiss me, Hester. Kiss or by----we are enemies, and I'll give you no more consideration than a drunken soldier does a captive wench."

"I hate you! Let me go, I shall strike you, you----"

"You are mine--mine. You have come voluntarily into my snare. The house is asleep."

"Oh, Dick--Dick, spare me! Have mercy--for the sake of our child. For Mabel's sake, don't drive me to do anything rash. Let go my wrist, or I will rouse the house. Help!"

The cry was half uttered; but he clapped his hand over her mouth and forced her roughly against the table, thrusting her head back by the fierce pressure of his hand till her white throat was strained to choking point.

He seemed to be maddened by her beauty, for he laughed wildly, and, flinging his arms about her, pressed kisses on the alabaster throat till she shrank away, in groaning, shuddering fright.

"Dick--Dick--for Mabel's sake--have mercy! You are behaving foolishly. Think of our child--she has a future----"

She talked at random, and he mastered himself. He drew her from the table towards the arm chair; but she broke away and rushed for the door. He made a dash to prevent her; but the door opened quickly in ghostly fashion, and, out of the black hollow beyond, the gaunt figure of Aunt Caroline appeared. He drew back at the first sound, and stood as if turned to stone, but when he saw who it was, he laughed contemptuously and turned away with perfect composure.

Hester, wild-eyed and terror-stricken, wondered how much the old lady had heard; but the instinct of self-preservation came to her aid, and she pulled herself together with a great effort.

"How--how you startled us, Caroline," she murmured.

The od lady held the door wide open, and, pointing her long, lean finger to the darkness beyond, murmured the simple command--

"To bed!"

That was all she said, and it was impossible to disobey or argue. "I will settle with this man," she added, as Hester crept out.

Evidently Caroline had heard a good deal. She paid no further heed to Hester, but fixed Bannister with her glittering eyes; her lips were tight drawn and bloodless, and her face was grey in its cold pallor. The man fidgeted a little; there was no timidity in this woman at any rate.

Hester half way up the stairs stopped and listened in an agony of apprehension; but the door closed behind Aunt Caroline with a bang.

"Well, madam, and why am I favored by this midnight visit?" asked Bannister, walking to the fireplace and examining a picture over the mantelpiece with affected unconcern.

"For the same reason that Hester came here--because you are a villain and a rascal, and because something must be done before you work further mischief. My brother's wife has forfeited her right to rule in this establishment. From this hour I take command. Whilst my brother lies ill I stand in his place."

"Indeed!"

"And I request that you will pack up your things and depart by the eight o'clock train to-morrow morning."

"How extremely hospitable! Is there not an earlier train?"

"Yes there's one at six."

"At six. Oh, no. I fear I must trouble you for breakfast. The eight o'clock is early enough. If the mistress of the house desires me to go--well, I will think about it. Lady Hester did not give me to understand that she had abdicated her position."

"You will leave this house to-morrow. And your child will go with you."

"There again I fear you are in error, Miss Cardew; Jack is coming home to-morrow, and he will expect to find his affianced wife here."

"She is not his affianced wife. She is your daughter, and--Hester's daughter."

Bannister lost his composure for a moment, and changed color. "I beg your pardon, I did not understand you."

"You understood me well enough. The child is yours and Hester's. You two have met before. I knew it. You meet again, at midnight, in secrecy, here. But you forget that wooden doors are not as thick as brick walls, and when you get excited your voice travels. I've been outside for some time. I have solved the riddle. I understand now the secret of your power over my brother's wife, and I have fathomed the mystery of Mabel's birth. You must see yourself that the circumstances make it impossible for you to remain under this roof."

"You have been dreaming, Miss Cardew. Are you sure you are not walking in your sleep?"

"Oh, you can deny what I say, but it doesn't alter the facts of the case. You've come down here for what you can get, and you think you can hoodwink my poor, unsuspecting brother into allowing his son to marry your daughter--the daughter of a penniless scamp. You are mistaken, and you will immediately go away."

Bannister smiled irritatingly, and surveyed Aunt Caroline with a pitying stare.

"I don't think I shall go after all. You are so amusing."

"You've got to go. I expected a refusal; but I suppose you're open to persuasion. It is money you want, eh? How much?"

Bannister looked shocked and astonished.

"How much is it? Name your terms. My brother's happiness, the peace of this house, and the future of my nephew are all dear to me. But if peace has to be bought, I am willing to pay--and pay handsomely. So name your price to leave this house, to leave England and take your daughter with you. Why don't you go back to Vienna, Dick Gordon?"

Bannister did not reply. He only smiled, and, after a long silence, took out his watch and looked at it languidly. Then he yawned and stared at the ceiling, the walls, and the floor, as if patiently waiting for more. The old lady stood on the same spot without moving a muscle. Only her eyes seemed to be alive. At last the man broke the silence.

"This conversation would be amusing if the hour were not so late, Miss Cardew. I'm afraid I must go to bed. You disturbed my _tête-à-tête_ with Lady Hester; but your humorous sallies are not sufficiently amusing to keep me awake."

He would have walked to the door, but she stood in his path, grim and unrelenting.

"Oh, you don't deceive me, Mr. Dick Gordon. What is it to be, the police or a cheque?"

He showed signs of irritation now. That uncomfortable word "police" was one which he usually disdained and ignored; yet the mention of it never fails to produce a slight uneasiness in a thief.

"Madam, I wish you would allow me to go to bed."

"You can make your price high. I shall not wince. I know that when dealing with men of your type one must pay through the nose. How much is it to be--a thousand pounds?"

Even Dick Gordon was rather staggered at the munificence of the offer, and in a subconscious way he considered it, and came to the conclusion that a needy man might do worse than blackmail a Bishop's sister.

"Madam, your money has no interest for me. I much esteem your brother's wife, as you doubtless suspect, and I am delighted to have your nephew as a son-in-law. I put myself in her ladyship's hands entirely. I abide by her decision, and she has decided that I should become one of the family. The Bishop, I understand, much resents your interference in his affairs. He is suffering now from the effects of it."

The old lady listened unmoved except to exclaim sharply--

"Two thousand."

There was a pause.

"Men of your kind always have their price. Will you go, or must I appeal to your daughter and offer her the money? Is she a partner in the swindle? You know that you have nothing, that you are nobody, that your talk of buying Dingle Hall is empty boast, that your promised settlements are a fraud. I am offering you money in large sums. Don't be a fool. Take it, and clear off with your child. Hester has suffered enough in the concealment of her sin--how much, I never guessed until to-night. What I overheard at the door explains many things; at the same time the knowledge makes me mistress here. I tell you my nephew shall not marry a scamp's daughter."

"But suppose they are married already, my dear Miss Cardew."

The old lady bit her lip and faltered. She had thought of this, but the idea had been dismissed, and she would not entertain it now.

"I am not dealing in suppositions."

"Then let me inform you, in strictest confidence, Miss Cardew, that I have very grave suspicions that my girl is Mrs. Jack Cardew."

"God forbid!"

"I am afraid the Deity has no jurisdiction in these matters, and you see how foolish it is of you, Miss Cardew, to talk of preventing a marriage that has already taken place."

"It has taken place? You assert that?"

"I suspect it, I will say no more. I have no first-hand knowledge. Your obstinate brother precipitated the match by his opposition and his inquisitiveness concerning Mabel's parentage and fortune. You would not like him to know that he had been deceived. Coming on top of his illness it would be a great shock to find that his son was secretly married."

"No--Heaven forbid! Oh, what a morass of infamy!--secrecy and sin--deception on every side."

"Miss Cardew, I think I have shown you the absurdity of your position. As one of the family you are quite entitled to express your opinion about me and my daughter, and say what you like concerning my financial position. It is beneath my dignity to argue pounds, shillings and pence with you. My means are sufficient for my needs, and for keeping up Dingle Hall; and my daughter's dowry will be larger than the miserable pittance your beggarly nephew earns at the Bar. Your insinuations concerning the parentage of Mabel are an insult to the memory of my dead wife. You misunderstood what you heard. Though doors may be thinner than brick walls, the thick-headedness of eavesdroppers cannot always be estimated. I wish you good night."

He stepped towards the door again, but she was too quick, and, darting backwards, barred his way by standing with her back to it.

"Three thousand pounds."

She snapped out the words and clenched her teeth on them, glaring dangerously. He could not thrust her from the door so he turned back, shrugging his shoulders and laughing.

"Really, you are too amusing; and your freedom with your money suggests an inexhaustible treasury."

"It is not inexhaustible, but it can stand that. Is it a bargain?"

"I assure you, madam, your offers have no influence with me whatever."

"You came down here to make money, and you expected to clear a certain sum. I heard that much; but how you intended to do it I didn't quite hear; but I heard you talk of clearing a big sum."

"Ah, I was talking of a little speculation, something that would bring me much more than three thousand pounds."

"Oh, three thousand is not enough? I expected to have to deal with a shark. Five thousand."

The repetition of her offers in thousands had its effect upon the scoundrel. He paused to think. He had never been offered money in such sums before; and there was every likelihood of the amount being increased to quite a large figure if he insisted. Would it not be better, after all, to extract money from Aunt Caroline than to go through the dangerous and humiliating procedure of disposing of the emeralds. She saw the thoughts revolving in his brain.

"Yes, think it over," she murmured, folding her arms and nodding, "think it over. The money is ready; and your daughter can be ready to accompany you by the eight o'clock train. She must never come back--remember that Jack's wife or not, she goes. Their secret must be kept. The boy will not be so foolish as to speak when he finds how miserably he has been duped."

"My dear madam, if you offered me twenty thousand pounds I could not do as you wish. You are talking in the clouds."

"Oh, so twenty thousand pounds is your price? It is too much."

Mr. Bannister went hot and cold. It was obvious that the old lady would consider any sum. It was a great temptation. If he could only take the money--and Hester, too!

He rammed his eyeglass in his eye, and caressed his beard thoughtfully, scratching it irritably now and then to stimulate his confused faculties. Why not take the bribe, anyway? Hush money, once paid, was rarely or never recovered, whether the services paid for were rendered by the receiver or not. The mere acceptance of a bribe would not enable him to separate Mabel and Jack; and he had no wish to do so; but if the worst came to the worst, and the old lady exposed him, he could do very nicely with that twenty thousand pounds.

He would have closed there and then, but for his lust for Hester. He could not give her up. She was a prize worth more than the whole of Aunt Caroline's fortune. The very thought rendered money of no value. All worldly considerations were as naught; the fever of the old love was burning in his veins, and the blood raced through them as with the return of youth. It was a case of money be hanged.

"Madam, you are insulting me by your offer. I beg you will stand aside and allow me to go to bed."

"Very well," she replied calmly, "I know your terms. I will consider them. Twenty thousand pounds."

"I have made no terms."

"Hester shall know what I have done; and she must understand that it is for my brother's sake, not hers. She has no wish to have anything further to do with you, and if you are a man, and not a cur, you won't pursue a helpless woman who would be glad to see you dead rather than touch a hair of your head. As for your daughter, I believe that she is not tainted with your venom, though she may inherit some of her mother's foolishness. I shall put the case to her; and, if she has a spark of womanhood and any regard for the man she has tricked into marriage, she will urge you to accept my proposition and take her abroad at once."

"You seem to be arranging things very nicely, old lady," snarled Bannister, losing his self-command. His sneering attitude dropped away, and the angry ruffian burst through. "You can talk as much as you please; but I'll thank you to leave my daughter alone. Say a word to her about me, or about her mother, or her husband, and I go straight to the Bishop and inform him of all the malicious, libellous, idiotic delusions you have got into your poor old head. And then, if he is wise, he'll have you put away in an asylum. Good night."

He strode out and left her, and she remained standing in the middle of the room, lost in thought.

"I've won," she murmured at last. "There's some humanity in the rascal, after all. He is touchy about his daughter--fond of her, no doubt. She doesn't know what a blackguard he is--or he thinks she doesn't. He'll consider it over. Oh, Hester, Hester, you poor weak fool! If I had only known--if you had only told me, what trouble it would have saved!"

* * * * * * *

When Bannister reached his room he expected to find Voss waiting there as usual. In this he was disappointed. Voss was sulking. Their quarrel had been fiercer than ever before, and the master had gone too far; he had overreached himself; he had grown arrogant with the near approach of his retirement from business, and made a fatal mistake in "rounding" on his partner for too much zeal.

The emeralds were still in the safe, and recent developments seemed to suggest that they might remain there forever. All his nice professional calculations were being upset by human nature in its most aggravating form. Voss was greedy, and he himself had lost his head over a woman--and that woman his own wife. Now, Aunt Caroline had stepped on to the stage, and the play was developing along unexpected lines.

He had hardly closed the door when a light tapping attracted his attention. For the moment he half expected Hester.

No, it was Mabel. She had changed her dress for a morning frock, and jacket and gloves; a hat completed her costume, which was evidently intended for a journey.

She entered without apology, and did not deign to answer her father's questioning glance. When he had closed the door she turned and faced him eye to eye.

He could see then that, although she was outwardly calm, a storm was raging within; her features were hard set, and her eyes sparkled with mental fever.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked curtly. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"Because I do not intend to sleep another night in this house."

"Oho! So you, too, are on the warpath."

"I have come to give you my reasons for going."

"And suppose I don't want to hear them?"

"You must hear--you shall hear!"

"Haven't I had enough of your insolence to-night without being obliged to listen to more? A pretty daughter!"

"And a pretty father, you! Yes, I've found you out. I know all about you, and I don't thank you for rearing me in ignorance of my true position. You have not only ruined my life, but--another's."

"I'm your father, and I'll not be talked to like this," he blustered, feeling more ill at ease than before a dozen Aunt Carolines.

"You are a fraud and a swindler, and you are here under false pretences. You deceived me about my mother----"

"Your mother is dead."

"My mother is alive, and in this house."

He changed color and tried to speak, but his utterance was choked by rage. At last he managed to blurt out: "Oh, so she has told you, has she? And I suppose you're going to desert your father, and take your mother's side."

"I am going to desert both my father and my mother. Which of you is the greatest sinner I cannot tell at present. My reason seems almost unhinged. I cannot think clearly. I can't realize everything yet: but this I know, I have no right in this house, and I must go."

"Oh!"

"And you will go too."

"It is kind of you to think of me, but I am old enough to take care of myself, and you should have sense enough to mind your own business. Go to bed."

"Not in this house--with that poor old man lying ill, and all on my account. If he knew what we were he would have us driven forth with whips."

"Look here, my girl, if you're going to talk this kind of twaddle I shall take severe measures with you. I'm not going to be dictated to by a child. You are my daughter, and----"

"And I am Jack Cardew's wife. God forgive me for that, too!"

"Well, I knew that. It is no news," he replied, with a laugh. "That's just the reason why you can't go if you want to. Your mother has been blabbing secrets to you in a fit of sentimentality, I suppose, and you think you've got me in a corner. But you have made a mistake."

"You have come down here to steal."

"And pray, how do you arrive at that amazing conclusion?"

"Deny it if you can. Tell me how you have lived all these years, where the money came from to educate me, feed and clothe me. Didn't I see you swindle poor Mr. Blunt? I thought that was the worst. It was bad enough, and made me want to kill myself for very shame. But what I heard at the jeweler's, and in your talks with Voss, when you thought I was in my room, showed me that you were worse than a swindler--a thief."

He clenched his fist and raised it as though about to strike, but controlled himself with a supreme effort. He recovered and shrugged his shoulders in the old way.

"Sit down," he said quietly, motioning to an arm chair, and drawing another forward into the wide space in front of the dressing table where the lights were. "I didn't expect to have to justify myself or explain my affairs to a child, but now that you are married and have stumbled upon things you were never meant to hear, I suppose you are entitled to know all."

She sat down and surveyed him with her keen eyes wonderingly. He had ceased to be her father; he was an amazing monster. He took out a cigarette and lighted it, for he found speech harder than he expected. At last he commenced briskly.

"When I was your age I was at Oxford, and my father was alive. His name was Bannister. That is my right name, and yours. He was a moderately successful physician, with a large income, which he spent chiefly on himself, and he gave me to understand that there was nothing for me after my university career was finished. He died suddenly, and I was left penniless. I came down from Oxford full of enthusiasm and Socialistic notions, but eager for work. I had a good many friends--so had my father. They used to talk of what they would do for me in the future. There were snug berths to be had, and as I had not been trained for any particular profession the necessity of getting a berth of some kind was the only anxiety I ever expected to have in life. Well, I came to London penniless, to find myself friendless. My father's friends fell away, and regretted they could do nothing for me. My own friends knew of nothing that would suit me. If they met me in the street they crossed the road or looked the other way.

"I soon realized that I was unfitted for any kind of work, and that a classical education does not help one to get even a common clerkship at a pound a week. I came down to my last shilling. I starved." He paused and re-lighted his cigarette. Mabel waited patiently.

"I was reduced to such extremities that my only means of getting food was to call upon my acquaintances at an inconvenient hour and stay for the next meal--which was not always offered me. Fortunately, at Oxford, I had cultivated the wealthy and most careless set, so that the houses open to me were of the richest and most luxurious--the most maddening places for a poor devil who was pawning his clothes, and would soon be too shabby to be admitted by a mere footman without suspicious scrutiny. I had to borrow, and people were beginning to give me the cold shoulder. My old chums frequently denied themselves to me when I knew they were at home. They feared that I wanted something, and I did: I wanted to live, to eat, to be warm, to have a roof over my head that I could call my own. Things got worse. My pride grew troublesome. I could ask for no more.

"One day I pocketed a gold cigar case belonging to a millionaire, and I pawned it. That was after two days' starvation. I could scarcely stand when I entered the shop. I remember it now as though it were yesterday, and if ever I need a stimulus to brace me for dangerous work I think of that hungry day. I swore I would never starve again.

"I was able to secure other precious trifles, and they kept me going for a few weeks. But my self-respect was falling, my rage against mankind increasing, and I scorned to be a common pilferer. I intended to live, and live well. Since I must prey upon mankind I would do it seriously and artistically, as became a gentleman of education. I was no common ruffian to snatch diamonds from a lady's throat. There are degrees in everything. There is a wide gap between the man who breaks the glass in a jeweler's window and carries off gems to the value of thousands and the humble sneaking wretch who steals for bread. Both choose the same road, but only the fool steals for bread. I was no fool.

"In short, my dear daughter, I arrived early at the conclusion that it was as easy to make a thousand pounds as a thousand shillings. I had no good friends on the Stock Exchange to help me rob the widow and the orphan by finance, and I was no Robin Hood to pilfer from the rich to feed the poor. Still, I had some hankering after respectability, and I mapped out a line of conduct which I have followed ever since. I have lived as the rich live. I deny myself nothing. I take my fill of life's pleasures. At first I wandered round the world, moving among my old friends, who were ready enough to receive me when I announced the death of a wealthy relative who was supposed to have left me a fortune. No one questioned how I lived, so long as I could go their pace and not be poor. They were willing to shower hospitality upon me, and put me in the way of good speculations now--in short, all that I needed when I was starving was available now that I was rich. The whole game of life is a great swindle, only some folks swindle and persuade themselves that they are living honorably. They mistake respectability for honesty."

"But my mother?" queried Mabel, to whom this cynical story was full of horror.

"Ah, I am coming to that. I told you that I always moved among the best. I met your mother at a dance. I fell in love. I think it was the first human emotion that I ever felt; and I got it badly. She knew nothing of my life, and she had no suspicion. I was just a gay, wealthy idler, whereas she was living in genteel poverty, bored to death and aching for a taste of life. We were married."

"You married her, living that awful life?" cried Mabel hoarsely.

"I married her, in secrecy; but there, no doubt she has told you the story."

"She has given me the outline."

"Ah, the sentimental side of it, no doubt. I soon found that I could not live my roving, dangerous life with a woman out of sympathy, ready to betray me at any moment; so I resolved to let her go--to give up the only thing I ever really wanted--and I did it. But you had been born to complicate things. You were taken away and put into gentle hands. I had no fancy for your being brought up to despise your father, and your mother couldn't take you to her home and keep up the fiction of spinsterhood. My next step was a mistake. I led her to imagine that both you and I were dead, and she believed it--on the flimsiest evidence. I never suspected that we should meet again, nor did I think that she would marry. I made no allowances for effect of time on the sentimental temperament. Until I came down here I hadn't the slightest idea who Lady Hester Cardew was. So, you see, my dear Mabel, we are all the victims of circumstance. I am what my circumstances made me--you----"

"Circumstances did not make you what you are," cried the girl, starting up. "You were always bad--bad to the core. I am ashamed to live when I hear you excusing yourself for the lowest and vilest acts. I am going away. As soon as the house is quiet I mean to leave it, and you, forever."

"Mabel, my child, you are joking. You are indulging in your mother's favorite heroics."

His voice broke a little, for his surprise that she should blame him after hearing his pathetic case was quite genuine. With all his vanity and cynical philosophy, he was horribly deficient in moral sense. He was quite persuaded that his experience of the difficulty of living was uncommon, and that his early struggles quite justified his present mode of life. To bare his heart and explain the motives which dominated his supreme egotism, and be misunderstood, was very galling. Yet he saw that he was losing his child forever, as he had lost his wife. The gulf between them was widening every moment, and he was losing something of which he was very fond. For, in his way, he was devoted to his beautiful daughter. He had looked upon her as his--all that he had, in fact, in the way of kith or kin. His peculiar mode of life had kept him at war with the whole world, but this one fair flower had been always his, untainted, trusting, devoted, an everlasting credit to his good taste and shrewd sense.

Well, he could spare her better now--now that he had discovered Hester. But he would not have her interfering with his plans and upsetting his last great coup by disappearing from the Palace, and from her husband. He had practically purchased Dingle Hall, and had built up a picturesque and interesting future. If she deserted him now there would be a crash in his affairs. Voss was in open mutiny; Hester had fallen under the dominion of Aunt Caroline; and now his child was up in arms. It only needed Hester to have an hysterical attack, and fling herself upon the Bishop's mercy with a dramatic confession, to complete the confusion of his plans.

He played his last card with his daughter. Speaking with a voice apparently broken with emotion, he put a gentle hand upon her arm.

"Mabel, my darling, your father has been an unfortunate man. He tried to do his best for you, even to shutting his eyes to your follies--but you must not leave your husband."

She drew away with a little sob, and tried in vain to recover herself. He had touched the tenderest chord.

"You have married Jack Cardew. There is no putting aside bonds of that kind. You must do your duty by him. I'll have no child of mine wrecking a man's life. He knows nothing of our secret. What right have you to spoil his career at the very outset--just when he has made his first success. He has won his big case, and he may make five thousand a year at the Bar some day. But if his wife plunges him into misery and leaves him--as my wife left me--what will be the result? Come, come, Mabel, don't cry like that. Pull yourself together. There is no sense in ruining your own happiness because your father is--well, a wrong 'un from your point of view. I am not going to be a burden and a disgrace to you as many a man would under the circumstances. I am a rich man, Mabel. I can fulfil all my obligations and make the allowance I promised when I settled matters with the Bishop. You will have no reason to be ashamed of your father. As the Squire of Dingle Hall I shall be a figure in the county."

"Oh, what would Jack say if he knew?"

"You need not tell Jack anything. Henceforth my extremely respectable existence will be a credit to you."

"I don't believe you--I don't believe you," she cried. "You came down here to steal. You came down here for the emeralds."

"Ah, there you put your finger upon a flaw in my case, and since you seem bent on being brutally frank, we will be both quite frank. Then we shall know exactly where we stand. I admit that, in making my calculations for your future, I decided that you mother's beautiful emeralds should be converted into cash solely for your benefit. They will come to you some day, when you will never want them. In the meantime I prefer that their value should be added to our common exchequer. Your mother, thank goodness, has learned discretion, and has seen my point of view. Her marriage with the Bishop cannot possibly be upset, and in return for silence on my part she will hand over the emeralds--a matter of twenty or thirty thousand pounds."

"She will steal for you--steal--and continue to live with the Bishop?"

"I am sure she will. If you think it out, my child, you will see that she must do so. It is her duty to atone for the wrong done the Bishop in marrying without confessing that she had married before. She knows now that she has a daughter. The dearest wish of her life has apparently been gratified in this knowledge. There will be no public exposure, no scandal. You will be one of the family, her own daughter almost in the sight of the world, because your marriage with the Bishop's son ties you forever to the Cardew family--and to that particularly shrewd and dangerous person, Aunt Caroline, who knows nothing worse against me than that I played cards for heavy stakes and quarrelled over them in Vienna. She learned that from Mr. Crick, the reformed inebriate. When I say nothing worse, I mean on the moral side. She has, unfortunately, discovered that you are Hester's child."

"Aunt Caroline has discovered that!" gasped Mabel, clasping her hands on her bosom and gazing at him with eyes starting out of her head.

"Yes, she has been eavesdropping. Your mother, with characteristic folly, betrayed herself by screaming out the truth while the old lady was within hearing. So, you see, you had better resign yourself to things as they are. You can't right them by running away. It may ruin us all, your mother included--and most certainly your husband."

"Oh, if I could only face Jack and explain," sobbed Mabel, dropping back into her chair and covering her face. She wept from sheer helplessness, and swayed from side to side. Her father saw his advantage, and pressed it home.

"You could not possibly explain. He would never understand. You haven't done anything that you need be ashamed of, and the less he knows the better."

"But his aunt knows," moans the girl.

"Have no fear of Aunt Caroline. She fears scandal more than the devil. I shall be able to manage her. I happen to know a good deal about the old lady. I had a friend at Oxford, who was afterwards very useful--I didn't know at the time how useful. He did dirty work for me occasionally, and I lent him money. He married a baker's daughter at Oxford while he was undergrad, and deserted her. After that his specialty was preying upon rich women. He was a parson, but a gambler and a fool, and he did everything clumsily. He made love to the sister of a vicar in the East End--a woman old enough to know better--and he was going to marry her. They got as far as Dover, but they were never married. He was afraid of bigamy. I am morally certain that the lady was Miss Cardew. I heard the whole business. I needn't go into details. The facts are sufficiently commonplace to make it indistinguishable from thousands of such cases--with one slight difference: the lady was rich enough to hide the consequences of her folly. That was dear Aunt Caroline at thirty. She wants to get me out of the house, and offers me very handsome terms. But they are not good enough. I'm going to live my life in my own way henceforth--and that way is going to be the straight way. I'm going to give up the crooked path, and you, my child, must help me, if you desire happiness in the future. No, you're not going to leave this house. I forbid it. I'll raise an alarm if you do. You will go back to your room now, at once, and I shall lock you in."

He took her arm gently and persuasively.

"No, no; don't touch me," she cried, recoiling. "I'll go back to my room. Don't come--leave me alone. I've heard enough. You are turning my brain. You have utterly broken my heart. I only want to die."

She crept from the room, and he followed to the adjoining apartment. He tried to comfort and caress her, but she shrank away as from red hot iron.

He laughed harshly, and shrugged his annoyance, but he took the key out of her door and locked her in ere he departed.

She flung herself face downward upon the bed and collapsed from sheer mental and physical exhaustion.