But Madeline was not to be found.
Always, in the days to come, he remembered her face as it had looked on him that night. Often in dreams he would start and cry out, haunted by the sound of her scornful voice, the spectre of her threatening hand.
CHAPTER IV.
THE DIE IS CAST.
Lucian Davlin paced the platform of the Bellair depot, in a very unpleasant frame of mind.
His companion,—half servant, half confederate, wholly and entirely a rascal,—discerning his mood and, as ever, adapting himself to it, had withdrawn to a respectful distance. Only the shine of his cigar, glowing through the darkness, betokened his proximity, or the fact that the dark platform was not in the sole possession of the sullen man who paced its brief length, and questioned the Fate in which he trusted, and which, for once, had played him a sorry trick.
"Gad! to be baffled like this!"—[page 46.]