the privilege of her acquaintance. Also, apart from
matters connected with his insane passion, he was very fairly shrewd. He
suspected Elizabeth of something, he did not know of what.

"No, no, of course not," he said. "Of course I would not marry her if
she was not fit to be my wife--but I must know that first, before I talk
of marrying anybody else. Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth. It will soon
be settled now; it cannot go on much longer now. My prayers will be
answered, I know they will."

"You are right there, Owen Davies," thought Elizabeth, as she looked
after him with ineffable bitterness, not to say contempt. "Your prayers
shall be answered in a way that will astonish you. You shall not marry
Beatrice, and you shall marry _me_. The fish has been on the line long
enough, now I must begin to pull in."

Curiously enough it never really occurred to Elizabeth that Beatrice
herself might prove to be the true obstacle to the marriage she plotted
to prevent. She knew that her sister was fond of Geoffrey Bingham, but,
when it came to the point that she would absolutely allow her affection
to interfere with so glorious a success in life, she never believed for
one moment. Of course she thought it was possible that if Beatrice could
get possession of Geoffrey she might prefer to do so, but failing him,
judging from her own low and vulgar standard, Elizabeth was convinced
that she would take Owen. It did not seem possible that what was so
precious in her own eyes might be valueless and even hateful to those of
her sister. As for that little midnight incident, well, it was one thing
and marriage was another. People forget such events when they marry;
sometimes even they marry in order to forget them.

Yes, she must strike, but how? Elizabeth had feelings like other people.
She did not mind ruining her sister and rival, but she would very much
prefer it should not be known that hers was the hand to cut her down. Of
course, if the worst came to the worst, she must do it. Meanwhile, might
not a substitute be found--somebody in whom the act would seem not one
of vengeance, but of virtue? Ah! she had it: Lady Honoria! Who could be
better for such a purpose than the cruelly injured wife? But then how
should she communicate the facts to her ladyship without involving
herself? Again she hit upon a device much favoured by such people--"un
vieux truc mais toujours bon"--the pristine one of an anonymous letter,
which has the startli