"Joanna, dearest Joanna," cried a familiar voice, "and has my disguise deceived you? It deceived the police, but I did not think that it could deceive you!"
The overcoat, cap and neckerchief were thrown aside, and in an instant Beverly Barron was kneeling at Joanna's feet. His tall and not ungraceful form clad in blue coat, with bright metal buttons, white vest, black pantaloons, and patent leather boots, he wore a diamond pin, and a heavy gold chain. His whole appearance was that of a gentleman of leisure, dressed for the opera or a select evening party. His face was flushed, his eyes sparkling, and the flaxen curls which hung about his brow, emitted an odor of cologne or patchouilli.
"I had to come,—I could not stay away from you, dearest," he said, looking up passionately into her face. "All day long, I have dodged from place to place, determined to see you to-night or die."
She gave him her hand, and looking into the opposite mirror, saw that she was very pale, but still exceedingly beautiful.
"To risk so much for—my sake," she said, and threaded his curls with her delicate hand, and at the same time one of those smiles which set the blood on fire, animated her lips, and disclosed her white teeth.
"You are beautiful as an angel, I vow," exclaimed Beverly, and then glancing round the vast apartment,—"Are we all alone?" he asked.
"Yes, all alone," she replied, "the servants were discharged this morning,—all, save my maid, and she has retired by my orders."
"No danger of any one calling?"
"None."
"You are sure, dearest?"