MISS HILDRETH.

A Novel.

BY A. DE GRASSE STEVENS,

AUTHOR OF "OLD BOSTON," "THE LOST DAUPHIN,"
"WEIGHED IN THE BALANCE," ETC.

In Three Volumes.
VOL. III.

LONDON:
WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1888.

[All rights reserved.]

Copyright by A. de Grasse Stevens, 1888.

CONTENTS.

MISS HILDRETH.

CHAPTER I.

A VIGIL.

The news of Patricia Hildreth's arrest on a criminal warrant had flown like wild-fire throughout society. Mr. Tremain found himself almost the only one of his world not cognisant of the facts from the beginning; and as he listened to one garbled statement after another, coloured according to the narrator's fancy, he cursed the evil fortune and his own selfishness, that had kept him so effectually out of the way, and made him play so blindly into the enemies' hands.

He knew very well that had he been at home, or allowed his letters and papers to be forwarded to him, matters would never have reached so serious a pass; but shutting himself away as he had done from all outside communication, there had been no one at hand to avert the blow as it fell, or to force a more definite showing from the attacking parties, before the extreme measure of arrest was put into execution.

Esther Newbold's absence, and the uncertain movements of the Deerhound, had proved an additional disaster for Patricia. It was only on the yacht putting in at New London, that Esther heard of her friend's trouble. A flaming poster outside the hotel had caught Mrs. Newbold's attention as she sauntered along the planked side-walk with Miss Darling, and the next moment they were both reading with horrified comprehension the bold sensational headings:

"Arrest of Miss Hildreth. Further developments expected shortly. Miss Hildreth's appearance in Ludlow Street, etc., etc."

These were the lines, in staring red letters, that first greeted Esther on her landing, after a three weeks' cruise; and their effect upon her can better be imagined than described. She was, however, essentially a person of action, and not an hour had passed before she, her husband, and Dick Darling, were on their way to New York, leaving the yacht and its guests to dispose of themselves.

That Patricia should be in such dire trouble, and alone, struck Esther as something so preposterous as to be almost incredible. Patricia, who counted her lovers and admirers by the score; who was always triumphant and victorious and worshipped wherever she appeared; whose smile was a reward highly coveted; whose favour was a prize eagerly courted—to be in prison, arrested on some crime too horrible even to be named. Alone; subjected to indignities and privations whose very meaning had been hitherto unknown to her easy, luxurious existence.

"Ah, do let us get to her at once," Esther had cried, imploringly, after she had poured out all the horrible story in George Newbold's astonished ears. "Only to think of her in that dreadful place; how she must suffer! And in this weather too, so hot and breathless as it is; and we never knowing all the time, but enjoying ourselves like brutes and heathens! Oh, Patricia, Patricia, is this what your wilfulness has brought you to? Oh, George, do make haste; and to think what a viper we entertained in that dreadful Count Mellikoff!"

"Well, he certainly hasn't turned out an angel," answered George, in his slow fashion. "For once, my dear Esther, the scripture has gone back on itself, for he was a stranger, and we made him very welcome; in return for which he took us in most neatly."

"Don't be profane," retorted his wife, "I'm sure this is no time for such joking. Isn't poor Patty a lesson to us all, and the evil that has overtaken her a judgment on our folly? But will you make haste? We shall lose the train if you are so deliberate. There's the gig along-side at last; good-bye, my Mimi, be very good and you shall come to Mumsey in a day or two."

She put her little daughter out of her arms, drew down her veil, and hurried off her husband and Miss Darling, without further leave-takings. Little Marianne stood on the deck straining her blue eyes for a last glimpse of the dancing boat, her white frock and golden hair fluttering in the light breeze.

Mr. Tremain found himself embarked on a fruitless expedition when he yielded to Dick Darling's entreaties and started off impetuously to visit Miss Hildreth in prison, and, as Dick evidently expected, wrest her there and then from its odious confines.

Indeed, had he been less overwhelmed by the calamity that had fallen upon Patricia, he would have saved himself the needless journey; for, although the evening was still young when they reached the gloomy building, no amount of bribery or corruption could effect an entrance at that hour. In vain Philip pleaded the exigencies of the case and his own legal position; the not too polite official was adamant to all entreaties. His instructions were decisive; any one wishing to see the prisoner must come at the proper hours, and with a proper permit.

"But I am her counsel," urged Philip, with a reckless disregard of truth.

The man looked at him disdainfully. "I guess that won't wash, Judge," he said, and turned away determinately.

Mr. Tremain looked down at Dick, who stood crying openly beside him, not even taking the trouble to wipe away the tears as they fell.

"It's no use, Miss Dick," he said, "we can do nothing until morning. You must let me take you home."

"Oh, it's too horrible," cried Dick, sobbing. "It's brutal, it's wicked! Only to think that poor Patricia is somewhere in this awful place and we can't get to her. Oh, Mr. Tremain, which one of those dreadful windows with the iron bars belongs to her——?" she could not bring herself to say "Cell," so choked down the final word in a fresh burst of tears.

"Ah, which indeed!" answered Philip, sadly. The same thought had come to him, as his eyes traversed quickly the long blank stone front of the building, its monotony of outline only broken by the narrow barred casements.

Behind which of those apertures lay Patricia, abandoned in her extremity? Her beauty tarnished, her fair name tossed from lip to lip, her character at the mercy of an unsympathetic human world.

"Oh, Patty, Patty," he cried to his own heart; "has it come to this, my love? Have all your pride and loveliness brought you only to this?"

He turned away slowly, and, drawing Dick's hand within his arm, led her to the carriage that stood some little distance down the street.

"Will you go back to Esther?" he asked as he helped her in.

"Yes," she answered; "and oh, Mr. Tremain, come with me; oh do, please do."

He hesitated for a moment; then giving the address, stepped in and seated himself beside her.

Neither Philip nor Miss Darling ever forgot that long night drive, or the moving panorama made up of lights and shops and people, that seemed for ever passing and repassing before them. It was as if they stood still, while all this restless pageant went by them in brilliant sequence.

As they turned into Broadway, and drove somewhat slowly up that narrow thoroughfare, they met the stream of pleasure-seekers at its height; the theatres were just over, and a crowd of brightly-dressed, gay-voiced people were passing from the entrances into the streets. Now and then a light laugh, or some careless jest, would reach the silent occupants of the carriage, and wound them; as a blow wounds falling upon a hurt still fresh and bleeding.

"Oh," cried Dick at one such moment, "how cruel the world is, how unfeeling! Ah, Mr. Tremain, how can any one laugh and jest when she lies in that awful place,—while Patricia is in prison?"

But Philip said nothing; the anguish of his own heart was too absorbing to leave room for superfluous words of comfort. For no anguish is so great and so overwhelming, as the knowledge of one's powerlessness to help when one's best beloved is in dire need of aid.

Fifth Avenue was reached at last, heralded a long way off by the huge electric transparency, which flaunts its advertisement high above the heads of the pedestrians, and causes the very stars of heaven to pale before its garish light.

Turning down a side street, well up among the "thirties," and then into Madison Avenue, the coachman drew up before a large brown stone house, across whose many-windowed front not a light was to be seen, save the faint gas-jet of the ornamental brass sconce in the vestibule.

Miss Darling sprang out unassisted, and running quickly up the steps, pulled out a latch-key and swung open the door as Philip came up behind her.

"You will find Esther in her morning-room," she said briefly, and leaving him to find his own way, turned towards the stairs. Philip watched her as she mounted them wearily, step by step. There was dejection and despondency in her movements, and in the tired droop of the young shoulders beneath the long dark cloak.

A deeper feeling than he had ever believed it possible for him to entertain for gay, volatile Miss Dick, had been born within his heart that evening; and, as he stood now and watched the girlish figure fade into the shadows of the upper corridor, it was with a sense of sudden loneliness that he turned and walked slowly across the wide entrance hall.

Mrs. Newbold's town house wore that look of desolation and inhospitality that is born of holland covers over the furniture, carpets rolled up into corners, statues, ornaments, and chandeliers wrapped in protecting winding-sheets. The advent of the mistress of the house had been sudden and unexpected, and the mansion had not as yet thrown off the depressing atmosphere of care-takers and board-wages.

In Esther's boudoir, however, matters were a little more homelike; the cases had been taken off the chairs and couches, and various feminine belongings, flowers and books, redeemed somewhat the forlornness of shrouded pictures, and a fireless hearth.

Mr. Tremain knocked in a perfunctory way on the door, and immediately Mrs. Newbold's voice bade him enter. He found her lying on a couch drawn up to an open window, over which the Venetian blind had been lowered.

She had been crying bitterly, and the face she raised from the pillows bore but a faint resemblance to its usual insouciant blonde prettiness, in the blurred lines, heavy eyes, pallid cheeks, and tumbled golden hair.

She sprang up impetuously on seeing Mr. Tremain, and ran towards him holding out her hands in welcome.

"Oh, Philip," she cried, "have you come at last? Oh, is it not all too dreadful? Have you seen her, Philip? How is she? Is she brave and full of courage? Oh, Patricia! poor, poor Patricia!"

Mr. Tremain took her hands in his as he answered:

"No, I have not seen her, Esther. We were too late."

She turned away from him and sank down again on the couch, looking up at him with the tears gathering in her tired blue eyes.

"I made sure you would see her," she said, simply. "I never doubted your power, I never thought you could fail."

"Alas, I am not omnipotent," he answered, somewhat bitterly. "Even a little brief authority, officially bestowed, can render me powerless. It will not be for very long, however. I shall go back again at the earliest possible hour in the morning."

"And you will help her, Philip, you will not let any foolish feeling of pique come between you and her now? You will not remember her cruelties, you will only think of her sufferings? Oh, Philip, you must take up this matter for her, and you must plead for her, when the time comes, as you have never done before. You will, Philip, promise me you will?"

"There is little need for that," he answered, sadly; "all my services are at her disposal if she will accept them."

"Yes, I am sure of it," replied Esther. "Ah, Philip, I did not think this would be the service she was to require from you, when I begged you, that last day at the Folly, to help her if occasion came."

"No, nor did I," answered Philip, quietly; then after a moment's pause he continued: "Do you think, Esther, you can bear to tell me a little more about this matter? So far I know nothing beyond the bald fact of the arrest, and the nature of the charge lodged. Miss Darling was too much overcome to enter into particulars. If I put a few plain questions, will you answer them?"

"Oh, yes, I will try," replied Mrs. Newbold, clasping her hands closely together, and looking earnestly up at him.

Philip drew forward a low chair, and placing it in front of her, sat down wearily, and with a half sigh.

"Do you know when—she—she was arrested?" He avoided Patricia's name with something of the same dread which makes us hesitate over that of one but lately dead.

"I think it was only a few days ago, but I don't know exactly; I cannot give you the precise date," answered Esther.

"Ah, that accounts for the delay that has occurred in their pushing on the matter," said Philip, more to himself than to her. "August is the legal holiday month, and Anstice, the District Judge, before whom the examination, if there be one, would be made, is not due here for another week. We have therefore seven clear days before us, in any event, without counting on the chapter of accidents for further delays. Now tell me, who was it brought the application for arrest?"

"Count Vladimir Mellikoff," replied Mrs. Newbold. "Oh, Philip," she added, her eyes flashing, "is he not a coward, and does not his seem coward's work, when one remembers how he was received and trusted?"

Mr. Tremain answered by a gesture of his hand.

"One would rather not think of that," he said; "let us try and put aside personalities, and look at the case only from an outside point of view. You may be very sure Count Mellikoff wasted neither time, nor the opportunities afforded him by your hospitality, to work out his nefarious scheme. But what I wish to ask you, Esther, will, I know, grieve you to answer; still I must clear up one or two points in my own mind, before I see her. Who was the person murdered; and why is she suspected of complicity in the crime?"

He spoke sternly, and the hard lines of his face appeared in greater prominence. Esther looked at him half frightened.

"He believes her guilty," she thought, with quick and decisive perception. "How terrible! But it is so, I see it in his face." Then she said aloud, and with a slowness that was almost hesitancy: "The name of the murdered man was Count Stevan Lallovich; but I can't tell you—that is—at least I don't know, how it is that they prove Patricia to be mixed up in the horrible affair."

Mr. Tremain noted her hesitancy and the sudden reserve that had come over her; he put it down to the knowledge of some facts she was wilfully withholding from him, and this suspicion added weight in the scale, that balanced so evenly between Patricia's innocence and guilt.

When he next spoke, his voice was even colder and harder than before.

"There is something very mysterious in the whole affair," he said, looking Esther straight in the eyes; "it seems inconceivable that an American citizen should be arrested in her own country, on the charge of a foreign agent, for a murder committed in a foreign land, on a foreign subject. Of course Count Mellikoff has no power to arrest of himself; he must therefore, have laid sufficiently compromising evidence before our authorities to obtain a warrant, and an officer to execute it. As it appears now the whole affair reads more like a midsummer madness than anything else; but a madness pregnant with serious complications and results. Who was this Stevan Lallovich, Esther, and did—she—know him?"

"He was a cousin, or a relation, or a near connection of the Russian Tsar's," answered Mrs. Newbold, still avoiding Philip's eyes. "I heard Patricia—I mean I believe she did once admit knowing him when she was in St. Petersburg. He was a great swell there, I am told, and the favourite of the Court society. I don't know anything more about it, Philip, indeed I don't. And oh, it is all so horrible, and so dreadful, how can you go on asking questions in that cold way? It's just as if you admitted to yourself that there was a possibility of her—her knowing something about the death of this miserable man. Oh, Philip, how can you doubt her? How can you, when you think of her in prison, and remember it is Patricia, our own Patricia, they accuse of this terrible crime?"

And Esther buried her face in her hands weeping passionately.

But Mr. Tremain was scarcely moved; he remained sitting, resting his head on his hand, and apparently lost in close study of the carpet under his feet. Esther's words rang in his ears.

"Oh, Philip, how can you doubt her?"

And yet he knew he did doubt her. He knew that when Mrs. Newbold admitted Patricia's acquaintance with the murdered Stevan Lallovich, and placed that acquaintance within the ten years of Miss Hildreth's absence—those ten unexplained years—he felt all the old distrust and suspicion leap into life again, and range themselves before him in mute confirmation of Miss James's calculated insinuations.

"Ten years is a long time—long enough to plant and sow and reap—long enough to sink one's self to the neck in intrigue, to bury one's self in crime."

How could he declare her innocent when this terrible, impassable gulf lay between them? Since she had known this Stevan Lallovich, might not another of Miss James's suppositions prove true? Might she not also have known Vladimir Mellikoff in that past, and have reason to fear him now? How much could he believe even of what she, Patricia, might tell him?

Several long moments passed by in silence, during which Esther sobbed hysterically, before he roused himself, and, getting up, said, very quietly: "I will not trouble you further to-night, Esther; you had better get to bed, little woman. You do not quite trust me, I know, but you may, my dear; never fear, she shall not suffer or be overcome if I can prevent it. I will come back to-morrow after—I have seen her—and tell you of her."

"Oh, Philip, be gentle to her," pleaded Esther, "be very gentle; remember you did love her—once."

"I am not likely to forget it," he replied, and then he turned away abruptly and left her.

All night long he walked to and fro, up and down, across an open common of waste land that skirted the railway at Manhattanville, and all night long, as the hours crept by, and the stars faded, and the dawn drew on, he fought the battle over and over against himself—the battle of his love for her, against his doubt of her. And when the day broke in a sunrise of golden splendour, it found him still uncertain, neither victor nor vanquished; still loving her, and still doubting her.

CHAPTER II.

LUDLOW STREET JAIL.

Mr. Tremain did not return to his rooms with the dawning of the day; he indeed shunned them with an almost superstitious dread of what he should find there. It seemed to his overwrought nerves that they must for ever be haunted by the horrible spectres evolved by Miss Dick, and by the memory of her terror-stricken eyes and tear-stained face.

With the lengthening of the morning hours civilisation awoke again to its monotonous round of employment. A grey-coated policeman, making his way to the park, yawning as he walked, and but half awake, passed Mr. Tremain, and turning round stared at him inquiringly.

And, indeed, Philip, as he stood outlined against the clear blue sky, his hands thrust into his pockets, his hat drawn down over his eyes, his face stern and pale, his dress disordered from his long night vigil, appeared a strangely incongruous figure, out of keeping with the fresh dewy daintiness of the summer morning, and might well arouse suspicions in the commonplace mind of a respectable Central Park policeman.

The pertinacity of the man's curiosity awoke in Philip at last a sense of his position, and brought back to him, with a sudden rush, the reason of his presence there—the reason of the dull anguish that grew into keener suffering with each heart-beat. In the bright sunshine everything appeared more hard and real; the night vigil had soothed him somewhat, and the slow on-coming of the dawn had held something of illusive hope in its vague tertiary half-tones; but with the breaking forth of the sun, in the vast triumphant heaven of illimitable blue, came the sternness of reality, the hardness of fact, banishing the gentler mood, and renewing the struggle and vacillation of his mind against his heart.

As the bell of the Sacred Heart Convent rang out for early mass, Mr. Tremain turned his steps citywards, and, walking with long swinging strides, was soon skirting the river Boulevard, and, entering the Park on the west side, made his way to the Fifth Avenue gates, and so down that deserted promenade until he came to an hotel; here he went in, ordered a room, and flinging himself on the bed fell into a deep and dreamless sleep which lasted for hours. It was nature's demand to recuperate her exhausted faculties, and would not be denied.

When Philip awoke it was close upon noon, and greatly annoyed at the flight of time, he swallowed a cup of tea and hurried away. On reaching the gloomy building in Ludlow Street, he demanded an interview with the superintendent, and after considerable delay, was admitted to that functionary's presence.

The office of prison superintendent is one not altogether to be desired; the men who fill the post are usually drawn from the rank and file of disappointed office seekers on a larger scale, who for political reasons consent to be mollified by the less honourable appointment. As a rule they are neither refined in mind nor manner, and, with an eye to the main chance, look upon the inmates committed to their charge as so many victims to be fleeced according to their means.

As we know, there is a golden key that fits all locks, before which even bolts and bars have been known to fly apart, and nowhere is its power so potent and so comprehensive as in the cases of a certain class of prisoners awaiting trial, who if they can control the "coin" can be supplied with every luxury, save those of freedom and fresh air.

The man who received Philip, with a short nod, was neither better nor worse than others of his tribe. He was apparently very busy—or wished to seem so—over a large assortment of letters and bulky documents, which, he rustled ostentatiously, and a trifle offensively, as he looked at Philip over his large round spectacles, and bade him, "Morning."

"Good morning," replied Mr. Tremain, with considerable hauteur.

"Now then, what can I do for you, sir?" asked the superintendent, fussily, and with another documentary rustle.

"I have called," said Philip, quietly, "to obtain full permission to visit and to wait upon a lady now confined here, at all times, and on all days, that I may deem it necessary to do so. The lady's name is—Miss Patricia Hildreth."

He hesitated as the last words passed his lips; how strange it seemed to use her name to this coarse unsympathetic official, how incompatible with all the traditions of his and her past!

"As for my own name," he continued, "it may be better known to you than my personal appearance."

He drew out his note-book and put one of his cards on the table. The superintendent took it up and scrutinised it narrowly.

"Oh, so you're Mr. Tremain, are you?" he said at last, rolling the card between his fingers as he spoke. "Oh, yes, I've heard of you, sir, often enough. I guess we oughtn't to be strangers, Mr. Tremain, since we're both in the same profession."

"Oh, indeed," replied Philip, seeing an answer was expected. "You are a lawyer, then?"

"You can bet on that, sir; I've served my day at the bar, out in the west there," with a comprehensive jerk of his thumb, "and I can tell you we get through some pretty tall work out there. Plenty of cases like the one you're interested in, you know; plenty of blood-letting, and many a pretty young woman mixed up in it all."

Philip winced; this classing of Patricia with the lawless crimes of a wild civilisation seemed little short of brutality, and brought home to him with terrible exactitude the attitude she had assumed, in the eyes of the public, by her association with crime.

The keen eyes of the official noted Philip's susceptibility, and he drew his own conclusions.

"Beg pardon if the subject's distressing," he said, not unkindly; "it's a pretty bad look-out as it stands, Mr. Tremain, and if I was a friend of the lady's, I should own to feeling uncommon squeamish. It takes a deal of evidence to get a warrant issued at any time, and specially against such a top-sawyer as Miss Hildreth. But there, that foreign Count, he's left no stone unturned; he's like one of those old blood-hounds down south, that used to track the niggers before the war. He's tracked to some purpose."

All this was horrible to Philip. It seemed to him he could not stand there and endure this man's crude criticisms and cruel deductions, passed so unconcernedly upon Patricia. To him each look was an open insult, each word a lash wherewith to strike at her; they brought the reality of her position before him with unvarnished accuracy.

She was no longer Miss Hildreth surrounded by her own little court, the cynosure of every eye, the honoured guest of every drawing-room, the reigning favourite of all society; she was only Patricia Hildreth, stripped of all accessories, a woman under arrest, a woman charged with murder, a prisoner awaiting the law; just as any other of the poor wretches within those hateful precincts awaited it, and with no more merciful outlook than had they. It was indeed, as he had said, horrible, incredible, maddening.

His silence had at length impressed itself upon his loquacious companion, who now sat looking up at him keenly, turning the visiting card round in his fingers. It was Philip who was the first to speak, coming back to his immediate surroundings with a start, and turning so sad a face, and such sorrow-haunted eyes, upon the little official, as to rouse to life all the dormant sympathy of his shallow soul.

"And the permit?" asked Philip, quietly. "I should like to use it now, if you please."

His very gentleness disarmed his opponent, who without further comment drew towards him a large volume, and filling in a blank order, tore it out noisily and handed it across the table. Mr. Tremain took it and folded it quickly without glancing at it. Each separate item in this horrible drama was agony to him; he had never fully recognised the gravity of Patricia's position until brought face to face with the official details of it.

"I've made it out as you wanted," said the superintendent a little protestingly, as Philip took up the scrap of paper, "it's available for any day and any hour, up to the official inquiry. You'd like to go to her now, perhaps." He touched an electric bell, and in the moment that passed before the summons was answered, said somewhat awkwardly: "I'm real sorry for the lady, Mr. Tremain, we all are. I've done what I can to make her comfortable, and let us hope her stay with us won't be a very long one. Woods," he continued, addressing the tall warder, who had entered as he was speaking, "take this gentleman to Miss Hildreth, and, look here, he's to come and go as he pleases, do you understand? Good morning, Mr. Tremain."

Philip bowed and walked out of the official presence as one in a dream. He lost even his own identity as he followed the guide down endless passages and corridors, and heard the jingle of the keys he carried suspended by a ring from his finger.

It seemed to him he was back again at the Folly; he was walking along the paths of Esther's flower-garden, with the stillness and hush of the night above and around him. And now he had reached the little hazel-copse and was pushing back the bough that barred his entrance; there was the marble fountain in the distance, he could hear the drip of the water as it fell from the upraised vase in the boy Narcissus' hands; and there was the rustic bench, and the figure in the flowing, shining, white drapery, that rose up hurriedly and came forward a little, holding the soft laces closely about the white throat and heaving bosom.

Yes, it was Patricia—Patricia in all her regal loveliness, in all her wealth of beauty; with her eyes glowing beneath the dark brows, her mouth tremulous and wistful.

He started forward quickly—the vision faded, the night fled away, the tinkling water-drops resolved themselves into the surly clink of key against key on the warder's ring. All the poetry, and grace, and glory fell away from him, as he found himself brought to a standstill before a heavy door, into the lock of which Woods fitted a key from those on the ring, unlocked it, and with a slight push threw it open.

Philip was conscious of a muttered "I'll be back in an hour, sir," and the noise of a closing door behind him; and then he realised that he was alone—face to face with Patricia.

CHAPTER III.

"FATHOM HER MOTIVES, PHILIP."

"Philip!" she cried, eagerly, and came forward, her hands held out in greeting, and then, as if struck by some sudden remembrance, and with a return to her old imperious manner, she dropped her hands, and turning, walked away from him towards a small table that stood at the further end of the room.

Mr. Tremain remained motionless just within the door, his senses taking in by degrees the surroundings, and growing accustomed to the half gloom that served as an apology for daylight, and that made its way through the narrow barred casement set high up in the whitewashed wall.

The room was too large to be called a cell, and if sparsely furnished, was not uncomfortable. Philip noted an easy-chair and a rug spread beneath the table, while on the table were writing materials and books, and a vase of delicate-hued roses; the counterpart of those he had seen in Esther's boudoir the night before. It touched him strangely to see this proof of Esther's love and Esther's faith; the golden blossoms came, he knew, from the rose-houses at the Folly, and spoke eloquently of Mrs. Newbold's belief in Patricia's innocence, since their presence in that prison-room—fraught as they were with so many memories—must, if she were guilty, prove a scourge rather than a comfort.

It took Philip some moments to realise his position and to adjust his faculties; when at last he roused himself and looked across the dimly-lighted room, it was to meet Patricia's eyes fixed upon him with an expression of proud endurance, that was more pathetic than tears.

She had seated herself at the table and was leaning forward, her hands folded across the portfolio that lay open before her. She was dressed in black, and the severe lines and folds of the yielding cashmere seemed to mark with painful accuracy the increased slenderness of her form—a slenderness, it struck Philip, that had almost reached attenuation. Her face was very pale; only the vivid burning scarlet of her lips, and the blue fire of her eyes beneath the straight dark brows, redeemed it from absolute pallor.

The confinement, added to the tropical heat without, and the close atmosphere within, had told visibly upon her freshness and vigour; there was a lassitude about her attitude and a weariness in the lines of her face that bespoke mental as well as physical exhaustion, and now that the sudden flush, called up at sight of him, had died out of her cheeks, Philip perceived how hollow they had grown, and how the circles under her eyes had darkened. Her hands as they rested on the open portfolio were stripped of all their wonted brave array of rings, and looked as white as the paper beneath them, the blue veins painfully apparent.

It was thus that he saw her again; it was thus that they met after that parting on the night of the theatricals when she, radiant, beautiful, sparkling with jewels, triumphant and successful, had laughed aside his love, and swept by him with a light jest and indifferent word, that wounded deeper than she might ever know. He had gone from her then, smarting under his humiliation, and in the hour of his pain proffered the love she had rejected to another woman, who could scarcely be called her rival, and yet who influenced him as potentially as she.

And what the result had been of that second wooing he dared not now remember, for even as he recalled his bondage to Adèle Lamien, and as he looked upon the wrecked beauty, the stained loveliness of the woman before him, so, too, he realised that he loved her and her only, loved her better in this her hour of disgrace and misery than ever before; and that never in reality had his true allegiance swerved from this one woman of his heart—Patricia Hildreth.

The silence between them grew oppressive, embarrassing; it was she who first broke through it, saying, in a voice that trembled somewhat, and with a little laugh that was but a pitiful mockery of its old gaiety, and that ended in a half sob:

"So you have come at last to see me, Philip. Well, and is it not absurd that you should seek and find me—here?" She emphasized her words by a swift glance up at the grated window and around the bare un-homelike room.

At her voice Philip awoke as it were to life, his eyes followed hers in that momentary, but comprehensive glance, and he understood only too well the meaning of the quickly-repressed sigh, that half escaped her, as she caught the gleam of yellow light upon the roses in the tall vase.

He crossed the room quickly, and standing beside her, rested his hand near hers, bending over her and speaking rapidly, in a voice whose deep emotion was only kept in check by his strong will.

"Patty," he said, "believe me, I came as soon as I could. I knew nothing of your trouble until last evening, when Miss Dick came to me about it. I lost no time then. I, we, came to—to this place late as it was, but we were not permitted to see you, we were obliged to go away and wait until the morning."

At the sound of her homely, familiar diminutive her lips trembled, though she answered with a little smile:

"Yes, the rules of this—this institution are rigorously observed;" then with a sudden transition to the old mocking raillery: "Ah, Philip, in all your gloomy prognostications for my future you never once thought of me as coming to—this—did you?"

The flippant words and manner jarred on him, he drew back from her mentally, and found himself wondering if there could be any situation in life, however tragic, that she would take seriously; and as he thought this, Patricia was noting the difference between his hand and hers, as they rested on the table side by side. Hers so white and dainty, luxurious, useless, with rounded nails and rosy finger-tips; his strong and nervous, with fine lines in the long firm fingers and well-modelled wrist. Were they not fitting types of their two characters?

"Patricia," he said again, and even more gently because of his half criticism of her, "it is a very terrible grief to me to find you here, and to know the—the reason of it all. I have come now because I want you to hear one thing from my own lips, and that is, Patty, that all I have, or can give you at this time, is yours without the asking, if you care to make use of it. I know I may be too late in offering you my services—indeed, I may be too late to be of any practical advantage to you—but in any case, as a lawyer, or a friend, I beg you will command me. You can surely trust my friendship."

At the last word she smiled, and raising her eyes met his, with a sudden leaping to life of the old blue fire in her own.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Yes, oh yes, I am quite sure I can rely upon the disinterestedness of your—friendship." Then, after a moment's silence: "Have you seen Esther? How is she? These are her roses. Are they not exquisite, and redolent of the Folly?"

"They are redolent of my folly," he answered sharply, and then continued, hurriedly withdrawing his hand from its close proximity to hers, "I saw Mrs. Newbold last evening; she has made herself quite ill by grieving over you and your present position. She is a most loyal friend, Patricia."

"And loyalty is so priceless an ingredient in—friendship," replied Miss Hildreth, "one should put a fictitious value upon it when one finds it. Will you find a chair, Philip, and sit down? I believe I shall make use of your protestations now."

He crossed the room in answer to her invitation, bringing back with him the one other chair afforded by official regulations. Her eyes followed his movements, and a smile, half tender, half wistful, trembled about her lips, fleeting in its gentleness as was her mood; for, when Philip returned and seated himself at some little distance from her, the fine well-cut lips were closed firmly and with something of sternness in their expression.

"Philip," she began, in a low distinct voice, and looking at him with resolute decision, "let us have done with this beating round the bush; let us be quite frank with one another for this one half-hour at least. You know why I am here; you know I have been arrested on a warrant for complicity in a murder."

He made a hurried gesture of appeal, and would have spoken, but she appeared not to heed him.

"They are ugly words; it is an ugly charge to bring against me, but since it has been brought I should like you to tell me, Philip, just what will be the course pursued. What will be the next move in the game? I have been here now—in prison—three days; ah, it does not do to mince one's words, my friend! And so far I am absolutely in the dark regarding my possible fate. What will happen to me next, Philip? What is the next step usual in such cases?"

For a moment Mr. Tremain looked at her in unfeigned amazement. Her coolness, her almost indifference staggered him. He had expected to find her overcome with apprehension and dismay, full of fears for the future; dependent, humble, imploring. Instead of which she met him with her accustomed ease and grace, and with even a touch of that old badinage which had always jarred somewhat upon him.

He could not but contrast Dick Darling's passionate pleading, and Esther's tears, with the calmness and self-possession of the friend for whom they wept and pleaded. Was she worthy of the intense devotion it seemed her prerogative to call forth? With this question his old doubt of her reawakened, and when he answered her it was with a possession no less assured than her own.

"To reply with anything like accuracy I must be professional," he said. "That you will understand?"

She made a little gesture of assent.

"It is useless for me to cite any usual course of procedure," he continued, "because all the details and circumstances surrounding this case are of so peculiar a character as to admit of no ordinary precedent. You have been arrested, not under the law strictly speaking, but under what is defined as the comity of nations; that is, that sufficient evidence of an incriminating character has been lodged against you to induce the authorities to accede to the pressing request of a foreign Power and to issue a warrant for your arrest. This arrest will be followed by an official inquiry, which consists chiefly in an examination of the warrant, to determine its regularity, and the identity of the person therein named with the person arrested."

"And this examination," she interrupted, "where does it take place?"

"Before the District Judge. Undoubtedly it will come under his jurisdiction."

"And this particular inquiry—my inquiry? How soon shall I be inquired into?" she asked again, with a scornful inflection of voice, and a little smile.

"Judge Anstice is the District Judge for New York," he replied, in his coldest and most professional manner; "this particular examination will come on next week at the latest, it has only been delayed on account of Anstice's unavoidable absence."

"I see," she answered. "And what happens next, Philip? You must forgive my utter ignorance, the situation is a novel one for me."

Again there was a sufficiency of mockery in her voice to strike Mr. Tremain afresh with the complete incongruity of the entire situation. It was evident she either did not, or would not, comprehend the gravity of her position; she was still looking at it as an outsider and not as the principal actor, the pivot upon which all turned; just as she forgot or put aside the terrible nature of the charge, and the fearful compensation demanded should that charge be substantiated.

"Good heavens," thought Philip; "she cannot realise it is for complicity in a murder that she stands accused! She cannot realise the nature of the obstacles that lie between her and acquittal, or how awful will be the consequences should our efforts in her behalf fail."

"Well," she said again, "what happens next, Philip? What is the next proceeding of the law? You have brought me as far as the Judge and the inquiry, what follows after?"

"Should there be any fault in the warrant papers," answered Mr. Tremain, speaking against his will, and in short detached sentences, "or should the evidence brought forward by those who obtained the arrest fail to be of such a character as to justify the person under arrest being put on trial, that person would be discharged, and therefore freed from any further action. The arrest in fact falls to the ground, unsubstantiated, there being no primâ facie case."

"And if otherwise, Philip? If the evidence is of such a nature as to prove a primâ facie case, what then?"

She asked this question very slowly, looking at him steadily with unflinching eyes.

"Then," he answered as slowly, and with every line of his stern face tense and drawn, "then I fear—I believe, that the person under arrest would be dealt with in the same manner as though legally proved guilty; the accused would doubtless be sent back to the country from which the request for arrest emanated, and where the crime was committed, for trial according to that country's laws."

"I understand," she said, after a moment's absolute silence; "and in this particular case—in my case—that would mean—Petersburg?"

He made no other reply save an assenting gesture of his hand.

For a long interval there was silence between them; a silence in which each was lost to the other's presence, and which was so full of dark meaning, so pregnant with dread possibilities, as to leave upon each like traces to those once impressed indelibly upon the countenance of a saint of old, who for one brief second was permitted to gaze into the bottomless pit of anguish.

Again it was the woman who first broke the silence, and though it was but the lightest whisper it pierced Philip's soul with dismay.

"Petersburg," she murmured, "and that means the mercies of the Imperial Chancellerie!"

"Patty," cried Philip with sudden passion, "this terrible alternative must never come to pass—it must be averted at all costs; do you hear me?—must be. You must be frank with me now, as frank as though your last hour had come. Answer me with absolute truth the questions I shall ask. I can only save you if you will save yourself."

She was not slow to read his meaning beneath his words, and the smile that curved her lips was bitter enough as she exclaimed:

"So you doubt me, Philip—you!" Then, with a quick indrawn breath: "Ask any questions you like, I will answer them."

"You know by whom your arrest has been accomplished?" he said quickly, avoiding any definite answer to her reproach.

"Yes, by Count Vladimir Mellikoff."

"And the charge?"

"For being an accomplice in the murder of Count Stevan Lallovich," she answered quietly.

"Did you ever know this Count Stevan Lallovich?"

"Yes."

"Did you know of his murder?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the circumstances connected with it?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell them to me?"

"I had rather not do so—now."

"Very well, let that pass. Did you ever know Count Mellikoff previous to meeting him at the Folly?"

"No, I think not. One meets so many people in the course of one's life; but I am quite sure I had never met Count Mellikoff before."

"Do you know of any reason he might have for enmity against you?"

"No, indeed; none whatever."

"It is very extraordinary," Mr. Tremain continued after this brief colloquy. "I cannot but think there is some other person mixed up in this affair besides Count Mellikoff, some one who has perhaps personal motives to serve in bringing this charge against you. Can you think of any one who has sufficient cause against you to make such a course possible? Any woman, let us say, to whom the blackening of your character would give a vindictive satisfaction?"

"Ah," she replied, with a scornful gesture, and the superiority of a beautiful woman over her plainer sisters, "I cannot follow you there. We all have our feminine enemies without doubt; but who of us can put our finger on the most venomous of them?"

"All the same we must find this one, Patricia; when we find her we shall perhaps unearth the secret of her spleen. I am convinced Count Mellikoff has a woman for his ally."

Miss Hildreth shrugged her shoulders, but made no further reply. Presently, however, she turned a little more towards him, leaning still further across the table, and looking full into his eyes, said, with sudden directness:

"Why do you ask nothing concerning your friend, Adèle Lamien, Philip? Do you not know that she, too, is implicated in this affair?"

"Adèle Lamien!" he exclaimed, taken off his guard by the unexpectedness of the assault. "Good Heavens! what has she to do with all this?"

"Ah, what indeed?" answered Miss Hildreth, slowly. "Fathom her motives, Philip, and you will lay bare the secret of my arrest."

"Patricia," he cried again, strangely moved and excited by her words and manner, and by the sudden return of that vague, intangible influence, evoked by the mere mention of Mdlle. Lamien's name, that had from the first played so distinct a part in his intimacy with her, "Patricia, what do you mean? Explain yourself. What can Adèle Lamien have to do with you?"

"Ah, what indeed?" she answered, in the same measured tones, still looking at him earnestly. "What indeed? All—or nothing,—Philip. Simply that."

"I must know more," he exclaimed, almost roughly. "You must tell me what you mean. I must find her."

"That may prove more difficult than you imagine," answered Miss Hildreth, quietly, and as she said the words, Woods the warder entered, and Philip understood the end of his interview had come.

He got up mechanically and held out his hand. "It is best I should go for a little while," he said. "I will come back again. After all, we have settled very little."

"I should say we had settled a great deal," she answered, with another of those quick, mocking smiles.

Then she bade him good-bye; and it was not until he had walked up the longer half of Broadway, that Mr. Tremain remembered two things. Patricia had calmly ignored his outstretched hand, and he had forgotten to inquire of the superintendent the nature of Mdlle. Lamien's complicity in the charge brought against Miss Hildreth.

CHAPTER IV.

MIXED MOTIVES.

Mr. Tremain had not been far wrong when he told Esther Newbold that the arrest of so prominent and well-known a person as Miss Hildreth bid fair to develop into an international question.

The charge entered against her was of too grave a nature not to excite and sustain public attention. It certainly appeared to the community at large a very arbitrary and high-handed proceeding that an American citizen could be thus imprisoned at the request of a foreign Government.

Her offence being in no respect a political one, this loophole of escape could not be urged in her favour, for in that case the foreign Government interested in her committal would never have demanded her arrest or expected her surrender into their hands. Doubtless had Miss Hildreth been but a poor workwoman, on whom depended the support of her family, no such strenuous efforts would have been put forth to accomplish her arrest, or a precedence have been created to deal with her position.

But being what she was, and controlling almost unlimited wealth and influence, the case assumed potential proportions, and therefore it was deemed expedient to allow an official inquiry to take place, and to permit the greatest latitude in its operations, even to the calling of witnesses.

To meet this position of affairs great exertions were made on the part of Miss Hildreth's friends, foremost among whom stood Philip Tremain. He had quitted Patricia's presence, at the conclusion of that first interview, as undecided in his own mind as to her guilt or innocence as he had been when he heard of her arrest. Her words, her insinuations, her reticence, had all been so many damning factors against her, while her manner, so light-hearted, so inconsequent, so trivial, were the only elements in her favour.

To Philip, indeed, that very light-heartedness—which he called flippancy—appeared the most suspicious feature of her behaviour. It seemed to him that any woman, no matter how frivolous or hardened, must have given vent to tears and protestations when brought so close to the awful consequences of even supposed guilt; whereas, he found Miss Hildreth even more composed—if that were possible—and more trivial than at their parting in the flies on George Newbold's birthday night.

Good heavens, how long ago that seemed! And what a page of tragedy—or was it melodrama? he had construed since then!

As he walked back to his rooms from Ludlow Street Jail that hot August evening, his mind was very full of Patricia's farewell words:

"Fathom Adèle Lamien's motives, Philip, and you will lay bare the secret of my arrest."

He had, indeed, in the sudden tumult and agitation of Dick Darling's appearance and communication, lost sight of Mdlle. Lamien's claims upon him; nor was it until Patricia spoke with that enigmatical smile that he remembered them, or paused to consider what was likely to be her attitude in the present complication of affairs.

He had neither heard from or of Mdlle. Lamien since their parting, and while he held himself bound to her by honour, he could not help reflecting upon the fact that no actual engagement existed between them, and that she might so regard their equivocal position, and desire him to understand her silence as an expression of her final refusal of his suit. However that might be, he felt matters had reached such a crisis as to make his seeing her an imperative duty, since, by so doing, he might elucidate the true motive for Patricia's arrest. Recalling Adèle Lamien's last words, and the note of victory in her voice—"surely this should be triumph enough, even for me, to know that I have won you from the remembrance, nay, from the very presence of Patricia Hildreth"—he felt more than ever convinced that Vladimir Mellikoff had not only been helped by a woman, but by this very woman.

Had not her own words betrayed her jealousy and dislike of her former rival? What more natural than that she should join issue with Count Mellikoff, and play into his hands, not realising perhaps the nature of the train she set alight, or the gravity of the consequences?

Was she not a Russian, and had not Mellikoff himself enlightened him regarding the system of that secret police, whose ranks were reinforced by members of one's own household! According to the Count's black note-book, the very people who ate your bread, who clasped your hand in friendship, who instructed your children, were, one and all—if Russian—banded against you, and ready to strike at you in the dark at the word of command.

Separated from Mdlle. Lamien, and freed from the dominating influence of her personality, Mr. Tremain realised how little his own volition had had to do with his offer of marriage to her.

In looking back at their interview, it seemed to him he had been possessed by some demon of evil who urged him on to his doom; and under whose specious reasoning and cunning insinuations, his own stronger sense and will had become but passive agents.

How gladly would he not now welcome any honourable means of escape from the light fetters that bound him! He knew this, and acknowledged it frankly; even while he also realised that, were he again to stand before Adèle Lamien, and listen to her low suggestive voice, and look upon her strangely familiar face, he would again yield to her influence as he had yielded before, and be subjugated by that same nameless something, to which he had succumbed before. It was not a pleasant position for any man to accept, and yet he was obliged to accept it from its very uncontrovertibleness.

He walked all the way from Ludlow Street to his up-town chambers with such reflections for his only companions; it was not to be wondered at, therefore, that he felt himself out of tune with his surroundings, or that the light-hearted gaiety apparent in those he met, whose labours over for the day, were evidently on pleasure bent, jarred upon him as exuberant examples of positive callousness. Just so would they laugh and smile and jest, even though the worst predictions came true; and she, counted guilty, had already set sail across the ocean of destiny to meet her fate—alone, in a land where neither his skill nor his love could avail her anything. He reached his rooms at last, exhausted in body and mind; he found them in the most scrupulous order, Harris, the invaluable, having reduced everything to the level of every-day commonplace. Not a trace of last night's emotional interview remained, even Miss Dick's little glove had been neatly folded and lay upon the table, with the faded rose-bud from her corsage placed on top of it. With a sigh, Mr. Tremain threw himself down upon a couch drawn up against an open window, and passed his hand wearily over his forehead. The silence and coolness and half darkness were absolute rest and refreshment to him after the heat and glaring sunshine, and conflicting experiences of the day; it was a physical relief to sink into a state of semi-apathy and to pass from the tense excitation of feeling into a corresponding insensibility.

Philip could not have told how long he remained in this state of suspended activity; he was aroused at length by the slamming to of the heavy outer door, and with this ordinary sound he reawakened to the exigencies of the immediate situation. He got up wearily and struck a match, not with any definite object in view, but because he felt he must be doing something, and that something could be better accomplished in the light.

The slowly igniting candles on his writing-table threw but a faint aureola into the darkness, sufficient, however, to reveal to Philip's eyes the pile of unopened letters, across the topmost one of which was written that under-scored immediate.

He took it up indifferently. "It is Mainwaring's writing," he thought listlessly, and had almost a mind to put it by until a more propitious moment—until he had written that letter to Adèle Lamien demanding an interview, upon the wording of which it had taken him so long to decide. John Mainwaring's communication could not possibly be of such importance as to demand instant attention; it had waited several days as it was, it might wait a few hours longer without disaster.

And so it is with the wisest and most sagacious of us. We pray on bended knees, and with streaming eyes, for one, only one chance, one opportunity more wherein to work out our salvation; and then when the grace is given we reject it because, forsooth, it comes to us in so accustomed and natural a guise we cannot believe in its efficacy.

How should Philip, hesitating and uncertain, holding Mainwaring's letter in his hand, guess that within the long business envelope lay the solution of all that was most enigmatic to him—the key to what was now a locked book to his perceptions?

Do any of us ever know the exact moment when we stand upon a mental precipice, or realise how far our next step may carry us on to our doom?

He broke the seal at last, more from habit than impatience, and glanced carelessly down at the page as he unfolded it. It was not a long letter, only a few lines written hastily across one side; but had it been a printed folio of engrossing depth it could not have riveted Philip's attention more closely. The candles, flaming up with a sudden assured brilliancy, shone full upon his face, and upon the startled, excited, incredulous expression which spread over it as he read.

It was a long time, many moments, that he stood thus, reading and re-reading John Mainwaring's hurried lines, and when at last he raised his head and threw back his shoulders, he took a long deep breath as of one who, but lately spent and exhausted, sees opening before him a fair plain, smiling and verdant, wherein his tired nature may refresh its weary faculties.

"If this is true," he said, half aloud, "why then——" and finished his soliloquy with a smile.

Half an hour later Mr. Tremain was ringing the bell at Mrs. Newbold's door, and somewhat astonished the servant by the vehemence of his demand for her mistress.

"Tell her I must see her," he said, "it is of the utmost importance;" then he pushed by the maid and made his way to Esther's boudoir.

He found the room empty, though traces of late occupancy were apparent in a book tossed carelessly down on the tumbled cushions of the couch, and a long strip of artistic needlework, in which the needle was standing upright, and a tiny gold thimble, that had fallen down and lay beside a "Kate Greenaway" picture book.

He had scarcely time to note these particulars before the door was opened, and Esther came towards him quickly, looking a little pale and excited, her fair hair tumbled about her face, and the long train of her négligé making a slight rustle as she moved. She came close up to him and raised her eyes to his; they caught the reflection of the hopeful gladness therein, and her cheeks flushed suddenly, as she cried, putting out her hand and touching his arm:

"Philip, oh, Philip, you have news—good news?"

Her voice had a ring of expectancy in it that did not escape Philip.

"Esther," he replied, looking down at her steadily, and speaking gravely, "I have come to you at this late hour for one reason only—to ask you one question. Will you be frank and honest in your answer?"

"Ah," she exclaimed, "there are both reproach and reflection in your words. Ask me the question first, Philip, and judge of my veracity by my reply."

She turned and walked to the couch, seated herself, and, taking up the strip of embroidery, examined it attentively.

Mr. Tremain followed her.

"It is all very well, your trying to parry my thrust, Esther; but it is useless. I shall oblige you to give me a direct answer."

He drew up a chair as he spoke, and, as he sat down, took from his pocket a note-case.

"Will you oblige me by reading this letter?" he said, handing her Mainwaring's communication.

She took it with a deprecatory shrug of her shoulders, and read the few lines it contained with an absolutely expressionless face.

"Well?" asked Philip, after several moments had passed.

"Well?" she echoed, folding the letter with exactness and handing it back to him, but avoiding his eyes.

"Esther," he said, bending forward and forcing her to look at him, "Esther, the news contained in that letter is no news to you."

Still she did not reply; she had again taken up the strip of embroidery, and her fingers trembled a little as she drew out the needle. Mr. Tremain put out his hand and took it from her.

"My dear Esther," he said once more, in the same measured tones he had used from his first greeting of her, "you can at least answer a direct question. Did you know of this before?"

"Since you put it in that way—yes," she replied.

"For how long—all the time?"

"Yes, all the time."

"And you have kept it to yourself—why?"

But to this she made no answer.

"Why did you keep it from me?" he asked, more sternly. "Do you think you had any right to do so?"

"Yes, I do," she answered, quickly, stung by the reproach in his voice. "I think so still. A promise should always be sacred."

"A promise—and to whom?"

"If you consider that a necessary question, I do not," she answered, with a touch of asperity in her voice. "You surely have lost somewhat of your customary acumen, Philip, to ask it."

"Then let me put it in another form," he replied, not in the least disturbed by her show of temper. "Did you promise—her?"

She looked at him for a moment, before she spoke, and the rebellious blood dyed her cheeks scarlet, her blue eyes flashed.

"I am not compelled to answer you," she said mutinously, "but I will do so. Yes, I promised her."

"But why, Esther, why? What induced you to make so absurd a promise? And, having made it, why, when such extraordinary circumstances arose, did you still keep your lips closed? Why did you not tell me that evening, when I came to you, and when you were in such grief and anxiety? Surely you must have known it would have greatly simplified matters."

But Mrs. Newbold was obstinately silent. She shut her lips firmly together and looked at Philip beneath a decided frown.

"Do you mean to tell me," he continued, a trifle impatiently, "that you could believe such a matter was not of vital importance? Do answer me, Esther, I beg; what motive can I have save to help——"

"Oh, if you will look at it in that light," interrupted Mrs. Newbold, quickly, "why then I must say, I don't see what great difference your having known this would have made. It couldn't stop the arrest, you know."

"I know nothing of the kind," he replied shortly; "I am not at all sure that it might not have done so. It is always far more difficult to rectify a blunder than to prevent one. I cannot but feel that you have treated me badly in this matter, Esther; at such a time and under such circumstances the utmost candour should have been shown."

He did not speak angrily, but with so much of sadness in his voice, Esther felt compunction stealing over her and absorbing her late vehemence and impatience.

"I should much prefer your being angry with me, Philip," she said, wistfully, "or that you shook me; it's much more awful to see you look so hurt and pained. But can't you believe me, can't you understand? It was her wish—her demand—from the very beginning. She made me solemnly swear that no one should know—least of all—you."

"Ah, yes—I least of all," he replied, half sadly. "Very well, my dear Esther, I will ask you no more questions. You shall not be tempted further to break your promise. Let us only hope that this unfortunate secrecy may not in the end prove our greatest stumbling-block. I do not see the way any clearer before me because of this unexpected document, but I shall do my best to use it to our advantage. After all, what a truly womanly bit of finesse it was—and is!"

As Philip spoke the door was again thrown open, and Dick Darling came in, followed by little Marianne carrying a basket filled with roses. She ran up to her mother, holding out the basket to her, and crying:

"They've only just come, Mumsey. Perkins brought them up himself. Oh, they do smell puffeckly 'licious!"

Esther took the flowers from her little daughter's hand.

"You can guess whom they are for," she said to Philip, smiling a little. "Dick and I intend taking them early to-morrow morning."

Mr. Tremain took up one of the fragrant blossoms, and, bending down towards Esther, said, in a half undertone:

"And is Miss Dick also a sharer in this secret?"

Esther shook her head.

"Not through me," she answered.

"And Mainwaring, how did he become a conspirator?"

"I do not know," she replied, looking down again. "I do not know—how should I?"

He made no answer for a moment, during which his eyes never left the downcast face before him.

"Good-bye," he said simply, at last, and including Miss Darling in his leave-taking by a half bow, passed out of the room, carrying the red rose-bud with him.

It was a distinct source of pleasure to him, as he contemplated the little flower, to remember for whom its sister roses were destined. The tiny blood-red blossom seemed to put him in touch once more with his old life—that life which antedated his visit to the Folly—when Adèle Lamien was still unknown to him.

CHAPTER V.

A WOMAN'S LOGIC.

The first check experienced by Count Mellikoff in the fulfilment of his well-laid plans, was one of which he took but slight account.

In calling into action the machinery of the law, and thereby obtaining the warrant for Miss Hildreth's arrest, he overlooked one point. He had designedly delayed this summary action until such a moment, when knowing the Newbolds and Mr. Tremain to be well out of his way, he could proceed without apprehension of interference on their part.

He was quite well aware that to act against their combined forces would be a far more serious undertaking than to attack Miss Hildreth alone and unbefriended. But could he once accomplish her arrest, he believed that here in America, as in Russia, he had only to demand an official inquiry, as a matter of form, and it would at once be granted; at which inquiry, trusting to the strength of his evidence, he foresaw her immediate committal for trial, and expected by the time the beau monde were returning to New York, and before a cabal could be raised in Miss Hildreth's behalf, to be already on his way to Petersburg with his prisoner, about whose subsequent fate, when once she was handed over to the Imperial Chancellerie, he had no need to concern himself.

Then he would be free to seek Olga, and, laying his love and his life at her feet, demand that reward for the sake of which she had persuaded him to undertake this mission. Patouchki also would be convinced of his loyalty by this last signal service in the Emperor's behalf; and even the Tsar himself might bestow a further distinction upon him; one ribbon more, perhaps, to swell the number of those upon which his beautiful Olga set such store.

And, indeed, so far fortune had favoured him and his plans; up to a certain time events marched according as he directed. The warrant was obtained; Miss Hildreth was arrested; and, save John Mainwaring, none of her special friends were in town to stand by her or act in her defence. On Mainwaring, Count Mellikoff bestowed not a thought; he had not even seen him in the crowd of transient guests at the Folly, and his name was suggestive of nothing.

The matter of an immediate official inquiry, however, was not so easily managed. Count Mellikoff found countless obstacles to overcome, raised by that very organ, the law, which so far he had played upon to his own purpose. Innumerable technicalities and difficulties were for ever cropping up, resulting in unheard-of delays. Even Mellikoff's patience gave way at last, and he anathematised the entire Western continent, its institutions and customs, in language more forcible than polite. Despite of his choler, however, Vladimir Mellikoff was obliged to swallow his wrath, and bear with what patience he could muster, that most difficult of all trials—enforced inaction.

Meantime he heard again from Patouchki, and the tone of his letter was such as to create a fever of anxiety and unrest, that threatened to prostrate him mentally and physically. From Olga Naundorff he received neither word nor sign.

And so the long, hot days came and went, and by none of the waiting actors in that life-drama were they ever forgotten in the years that followed.