“Good!” said the fortune teller approvingly, and he continued:
“While I took Jessie into my dogcart to bring her home, two swell Fifth Avenue ladies had Laurier put into a carriage and taken home. Now, aunt, I want you to help me to win Jessie Lyndon, and to give up all such notions as Fate having cut her out for Mr. Laurier. It isn’t likely that he means fair by Jessie, anyway; rich young men don’t often marry poor girls, you know; while I’ll make her my wife at any moment you persuade her to have me.”
“How am I to manage it?”
“Tell her that Laurier was killed in the accident, and keep her a prisoner in her room until she consents to marry me.”
“A risky game—and what am I to gain by it, anyway?” asked madame significantly.
Doyle laughed coarsely:
“Well, I’ve helped you often enough in risky games, so it’s your turn now. You just help me in this, or I’ll split on you. See? And you know what I can say and do if I want to. But you do the right thing and I will, too. Here’s some money, but mind you do the right thing, or you’ll be sorry. I’ll go now and call to-morrow evening to see how our plan works,” he said, rising to go.
Alas, poor little Jessie, surrounded by cruel plotters and a jealous foe, it might have been better if she had died in the heavy sleep that lulled her senses that dreary night rather than awaken to the sorrow of the next day.
When she sighed and opened her heavy-lidded eyes again, the fortune teller stood by the bed, looking down at her with a penetrating gaze.
“Ah, what a long sleep you’ve had, child. Do you feel better?” she asked.