Carey Doyle watched Cora with a lynx eye, but her perfectly acted remorse and grief baffled suspicion.
He rose, and Mrs. Dalrymple said eagerly:
“Keep up the search for my daughter and you shall be paid well for your work.”
“I will do what I can, madam, and I hope you will hear from me again,” he replied respectfully; then with a malignant look at Cora, he withdrew from the room and was shown out by a servant.
Cora had a difficult rôle to play now, pretending the keenest regret for her cousin’s disappearance, while at heart she was wildly elated over it.
But she was not finding much happiness in her position as bride elect, though she knew that half the girls in New York would envy her the honor of becoming the handsome young millionaire’s bride.
They did not know how she had schemed and sinned for that honor, nor that the sweets of victory had turned to dead sea fruit upon her lips.
His short-lived passion was dead, and in spite of his honorable efforts to disguise his indifference, Cora realized his patient misery, and knew that the day of their wedding was secretly unwelcome to his heart.
A nobler woman would have given him his freedom unasked, too proud to accept the hand without the heart.