t. I take from you wife and children,
and what you value far more--fortune. I think we are quits, and as there
is no more to be said, I will bid you good-night. Liston! show this
gentleman to the door, and admit him here no more."

Then Mr. Liston, pale of face, soft of step, furtive of glance, appeared
on the scene. Still clasping the drooping form of the outraged wife,
Norine moved towards the inner room.

Thorndyke had stood quite still, his arms folded, listening to all. The
game was up! A devil of fury, of disappointment, would possess him
by-and-by--just now he only felt half-stunned. He turned to the door,
with a harsh laugh.

"I have heard of men who murdered the women they loved, and wondered at
them. I wonder no longer. By Heaven, if I had a pistol to-night you
would never leave this room alive, Norine Bourdon!"

CHAPTER XXI.

"THE MILLS OF THE GODS GRIND SLOWLY, BUT THEY GRIND EXCEEDINGLY SMALL."

At the drawing-room window of the late Hugh Darcy's old-fashioned house,
Hugh Darcy's heiress sits. It is a dreary November day, a long,
lamentable blast soughs through the city streets--the two vestal poplars
toss their green arms wildly aloft in the gale, and the sleety rain goes
swirling before it. At all times a quiet street, it is entirely forsaken
to-day. Far off comes the clatter and jangle of passing street-cars, the
dull roar of the city's ceaseless life. In this by-street peace reigns.

Yet Norine sits by the window gazing steadfastly out at the wet, leaden,
melancholy afternoon. In her lap some piece of flimsy feminine
handicraft lies--on the table before her are strewn new books and uncut
magazines. But she neither embroiders nor reads--she lies back against
the crimson velvet of the old chair looking handsome and listless, her
dark, thoughtful eyes, gazing aimlessly at the lashing rain. Now and
then they turn from the picture without to the picture within, and she
sighs softly.

A bright fire burns in the steel grate and lights ruddily the
crimson-draped room. On a sofa drawn up before it, in a nest of pillows,
Helen Thorndyke lies so still, so white, you might think her dead. But
she is not even asleep, although she lies motionless with closed eyes.
Her life seems to have come to an end. Pride she has, and it has upheld
her, but love she has too, and pride cannot quite crush it out. Since
that fatal September night she has been here--since that night his name
has never passed her lips;