ruised. Slowly he seemed to recall his
following Dr. Medjora, his tracking him across the bridge, the house
afire, and his tumble into a well, from which he had climbed out late
at night. In fact nothing remained in his recollection except what had
been suggested by Dr. Medjora whilst he had been hypnotized. Still in
a vague way he half doubted, until at breakfast he found seeming
corroboration in the newspaper account, which told that the suspected
man had been burned to death. How could he reject so good an authority
as his morning paper?

CHAPTER IV.

DR. MEDJORA SURRENDERS.

Madam Cora Corona watched the destruction of the old mansion in which
she had last seen her lover, with mingled feelings of horror and of
hope. At one moment it seems impossible that the Doctor could find a
means of escaping from the flames, whilst at the next she could but
remember the manner of man that he was, and that having told her of
his intention to surrender to the police, he would scarcely have
chosen so horrible a death whilst immediate safety was attainable by
simply opening the door of the passageway before the flames enveloped
the whole building. Besides, how did the fire occur? He must have
started it himself, and, if so, with what object, except to cover up
his escape? But love, such as she bore this man, could never be
entirely free from its anxiety, until the most probable reasoning
should become assured facts. So, with a dull pain of dread gnawing at
her heart, she drove her horses home, holding the reins herself, and
lashing the animals into a swift gait, which made their chains clank
as they strained every nerve to obey their mistress's behest.

Reaching her sumptuous home on Madison Avenue, she hurried to her own
room, passing servants, who moved out of her way awed by her
appearance, for those who dwelt with her had learned to recognize the
signs which portended storm, and were wise enough to avoid the
violence of her anger.

Tossing aside her bonnet and mantle, regardless of where they fell,
Madam Corona dropped into a large, well-cushioned arm-chair, and gazed
into vacancy, with a hopeless despair depicted on her features. The
death of Dr. Medjora would mean much to this woman, and as the minutes
sped by, the conviction that he must have perished, slowly burned
itself into her brain.

She was the widow of a wealthy Central American. Her husband had been
shot as a traitor, having been captured in one of th