inions of folk who
happened to run counter to her notions in regard to prying, or, in
fact, her notions on any subject. In the present emergency she became
a veritable social hedgehog, and was soon left to solitude and her own
devices.

Whatever were Hagar's opinions on the subject, she kept them
discreetly locked within her own breast. She had received, at their
last interview, a revelation of the depth and force of character which
lay dormant in the nature of Madeline; and she believed, even when she
grieved most, that the girl would return, and that when she came she
would make her advent felt.

John Arthur went to the city "to put the matter in the hands of the
detectives," he said. But as he most fervently hoped and wished that
he had seen the last of his "stumbling--block," and believed that of
her own will she would not return, it is hardly to be supposed that
the Secret Service was severely taxed.

Be this as it may, the Summer days passed and he heard nothing of
Madeline.

* * * * *

Meantime, the neat little hotel that rejoiced in the name of the
Bellair House, displayed on a fresh page of its register the signature
of Lucian Davlin once more, and underneath it that of Mrs. C.
Torrance.

Mrs. C. Torrance was a blonde young widow, dressed in weeds of most
elegant quality and latest style, with just the faintest hint of an
approaching season of half mourning.

Mrs. Torrance had now been an inmate of Bellair House some days, and
she certainly had no reason to complain that her present outlook was
not all that could be desired. Already she had met the object of her
little masquerade, and it was charming to see the alacrity with which
John Arthur placed himself in the snare set for him by these
plotters, and how gracefully he submitted as the cords tightened
around him.

Over and over again Davlin thanked his lucky star for having so
ordered his goings that, on his previous visit, he had never been
brought into immediate contact with John Arthur. Over and again he
congratulated himself that his meetings with Madeline had been kept
their own secret, for he knew nothing of the watchful, jealous eyes of
old Hagar.

On a fine summer morning, or rather "forenoon," for Mrs. Torrance was
a luxurious widow, and her "brother," Mr. Davlin, not at all enamored
of early rising,--on a fine forenoon, then, the pair sat in the little
hotel parlor, partaking of breakfast. They relished