“All right, missy, just you follow me,” replied the negro; and, still smiling blandly, he led the way to a room in the second story.
On the threshold of this room the girl paused, her heart beating tumultuously, and her fair, young face growing white as the dead.
“Oh, God, grant that he may recognize me, and that I may teach him to know that I was never false to him,” she prayed, and then, forcing back the sobs that were rising in her throat, she followed the servant into the room, stepping softly in her fear of disturbing the invalid, but recoiling with a little cry of repugnance and dismay as her eyes fell upon the face of the man who had come forward to meet her—the handsome, saturnine face of Charles Broughton.
As yet she had not conceived any idea of treachery, and after this first involuntary shrinking from the man whom, for some reason, she disliked and feared—she would not allow herself to think of anything but Chester St. John.
“Where is he?” she whispered, with a wild glance around the room; and at her words Broughton broke into a low, mocking laugh.
“My dear, you must grant me your pardon for luring you here by stratagem. Your lover is—for aught I know to the contrary—as well as you or I at this moment; but I knew of no other way of gaining an interview with you, and so took the liberty of using his name to accomplish my purpose—don’t look so horrified—I mean no harm to you—sit down, and Sam shall bring you some wine.”
There was no need for him to tell her to be seated.
She had fallen into the chair nearest her, trembling in every limb, and for the moment utterly incapable of speech or motion.
On the day subsequent to that on which Iris had left the home of Oscar Hilton, Isabel, the beloved daughter of the latter, was taken suddenly and dangerously ill, and the fond father was almost beside himself with fear for his darling’s safety.