aded curtains and quaint artistic furniture
about the place, so unlike the gilded glories of his own taste. In about
half an hour the housekeeper came out to him.

"She is conscious now," she said; "give me your message."

He gave her a card on which he had already penciled a few words, and
waited, terribly anxious, for the result. The woman withdrew, and closed
the door. For a moment there was silence. Then a wild, fierce cry rang
out from the room and echoed through the house. Before it had died away
the door was flung open, and she stood on the threshold, her white hair
streaming down her back, and every vestige of color gone from her face.
Her eyes, too, shone with a feverish glow which fascinated him.

"Is it you who wrote this?" she cried, holding up the card clenched in
her trembling fingers. "If you are a man, tell me, is it true?"

"I believe it is," he answered. "In my own mind, I am certain that it
is. You are the only person who can prove it. I want you to come to
England with me."

"I am ready," she said. "When can we start?"

He looked at his watch.

"I will be here in half an hour with a carriage," he said. "If we can
get over the hills by midday, we shall catch the express."

"Go, then," she said calmly; "I shall be waiting for you."

He hurried away, and soon returned with a carriage from the inn. In less
than an hour they had commenced their journey to England.

* * * * *

It was an early summer evening in Mayfair, and Sir Allan Beaumerville
stood on the balcony of his bijou little house, for which he had lately
deserted the more stately family mansion in Grosvenor Square. There was
a soft pleasant stillness in the air, and a gentle rustling of green
leaves among the trees. The streets below were almost blocked with
streams of carriages and hansoms, for the season was not yet over, and
it was fast approaching the fashionable dinner hour. Overhead, in
somewhat curious contrast, the stars were shining in a deep cloudless
sky, and a golden-horned moon hung down in the west.

Sir Allan was himself dressed for the evening, with an orchid in his
buttonhole, and a light overcoat on his arm. In the street, his night
brougham, with its pair of great thoroughbred horses, stood waiting. Yet
he made no movement toward it. He did not appear to be waiting for
anyone, nor was he watching the brilliant throng passing westward. His
eyes were fixed upon vacancy, and there was