ed strange that after keeping the woman's face
living in my memory for so long I should so suddenly meet it in life.
There was something more than mere coincidence in this; yet it seemed a
horrible thing to do, to come under the roof of my dearest friend and
ruin his happiness forever.

Then the question came--was it not better for him to know the truth than
to live in a fool's paradise--to take to his heart a murderess--to live
befooled and die deceived? My heart rose in hot indignation against the
woman who had blighted his life, who would bring home to him such shame
and anguish as must tear his heart and drive him mad.

I could not suppose, for one moment, that I was the only one in the
world who knew her secret--there must be others, and, meeting her
suddenly, one of these might betray her secret, might do her greater
harm and more mischief than I could do. After hours of weary thought, I
came to this conclusion, that I must find out first of all whether my
suspicions were correct or not. That was evidently my first duty. I must
know whether there was any truth in my suspicions or not. I hated myself
for the task that lay before me, to watch a woman, to seek to entrap
her, to play the detective, to seek to discover the secret of one who
had so frankly and cordially offered me friendship.

Yet it was equally hateful to know that a bad and wicked woman, branded
with sin, stained with murder, had deceived an honest, loyal man like
Lance Fleming. Look which way I would, it was a most cruel
dilemma--pity, indignation, wonder, fear, reluctance, all tore at my
heart. Was Frances Fleming the good, pure, tender-hearted woman she
seemed to be, or was she the woman branded with a secret brand? I must
find out for Lance's sake. There were times when intense pity softened
my heart, almost moved me to tears; then the recollection of the tiny
white baby lying all night in the sea, swaying to and fro with the
waves, steeled me. I could see again the pure little waxen face, as the
kindly woman kissed it on the pier. I could see the little green grave
with the shining cross--"Marah, found drowned," and here beside me,
talking to me, tending me with gentle solicitude, was the very woman, I
feared, who had drowned the child. There were times--I remember one
particularly--when she held out a bunch of fine hothouse grapes to me,
that I could have cried out--"It is the hand of a murderess; take it
away," but I restrained myself.

I d