e believe it?"

"You don't know--the story?"

Virginia shook her head.

"When you know it, you will turn away from us, as every one else has."

"No--no! Be sure I will not."

"How can I be sure? Ah, almost all the solace of hope has gone now! You
will hear the horrible details, and--that will be the end."

Virginia caught the slender, cold fingers that twisted together
nervously. "Tell me yourself," she cried. "Tell me all--you, his sister.
Then you will see how I shall bear it, and whether I shall fail you."

"I will!"

Madeleine Dalahaide's breath came unevenly. For a moment she could not
speak. Then she began, her eyes not on Virginia, but on the portrait.

"There was a woman," she said in a low, choked voice. "She was an
actress. Max was in love with her, or thought he was. She was handsome.
I have seen her on the stage. Other men besides Max were mad about her.
But she seemed to care for him. He wanted to marry her, and when father
and mother didn't approve, he quarrelled with them, for the first time in
his life. We had always been so happy before that--so united. Everything
began to go wrong with my poor Max then. He played cards at his club, and
lost a great deal of money. And as if that were not enough, father's
losses came. He could do nothing for Max. Besides, the woman Max loved
made him jealous. He suspected that she cared for somebody else. He told
me that the last time I saw him before--the terrible thing happened. But
he didn't tell the man's name. Perhaps he didn't know him. We had a long
talk, for I had been his friend and confidante through all. I didn't want
him to marry the woman; but even that would be better than to have him
miserable, as he said he must be without her. And it was the next night
that the murder was committed. But it was not known until the day
after."

"Was it--the man of whom he was jealous who was murdered?"

"No, the woman, Liane Devereux. She had been shot--in the face. Oh, it
was horrible! It is horrible now to talk to you of it. Her features were
so destroyed that she could be recognized only by her hair, which was
golden-red, and her figure--her beautiful figure which all the world
admired so much. Even her hands--she must have held them up before her
face, the poor creature, instinctively trying to save herself, to
preserve her beauty, for they, too, were shattered. Her jewels were all
gone, and she had had many jewels. Soon the police discovered that they
had