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MONA

Or, The Secret of a Royal Mirror

by

MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON

Author of Virgie's Inheritance, A True Aristocrat, Trixy, Lost A
Pearle, Helen's Victory, etc.

1891

CHAPTER I.

A FASCINATING YOUNG WIDOW OPENS THE STORY.

"Appleton, don't look quite yet, but there's a woman just behind you whom I want you to see. I never before saw such a face and figure! They are simply perfection!"

The above remarks were made by a young man, perhaps thirty years of age, to his companion, who, evidently, was somewhat his senior.

The two gentlemen were seated at a private table in the dining-room of a large hotel in Chicago, Illinois, and were themselves both handsome and distinguished in appearance.

"There!" the speaker continued, as a slight commotion near them indicated that some one was rising from a table; "she is about to leave the room, and now is your chance."

The gentleman addressed turned to look as the lady passed; but the moment she was beyond the possibility of hearing he broke into a laugh of amusement.

"Oh, Cutler!" he exclaimed; "I never would have believed that you could rave so over a red-head—you who all your life have held such hair in detestation!"

"Well," returned Mr. Cutler, flushing guiltily, "I acknowledge that I have always had a peculiar aversion to red hair; but, truly, hers is an unusual shade—not a flaming, staring red, but deep and rich. I never saw anything just like it before. Anyhow, she is a magnificent, specimen of womanhood. See! what a queenly carriage! what a figure!" and his glance followed the lady referred to, lingeringly, admiringly.

"Yes, she certainly is a fine-looking woman," his companion admitted; "and, if I am any judge, the diamonds she wears are worth a small fortune. Did you notice them?"

"No; I saw only herself," was the preoccupied response.

"Aha! I see you are clean gone," was the laughing rejoinder of Mr.
Appleton.

The lady referred to was indeed a strangely attractive person. She was rather above the medium height, straight as an arrow, with a perfectly molded figure, although it was somewhat inclined to embonpoint, while her bearing was wonderfully easy and graceful. Her complexion was exquisitely fair, her features round, yet clearly cut and regular. She had lovely eyes of blue, with a fringe of decided, yet not unbecoming red upon their white lids, while her hair was also a rich but striking red, and was worn short, and curled about; her fair forehead and down around her alabaster neck in bewitching natural rings.

She was apparently about twenty-five or twenty-eight years of age, with all the strength and verve of perfect health in her movements. She was dressed wholly in black, which served but to enhance her fairness, while in her ears and at her throat she wore peculiar ornaments shaped like small crescents, studded with diamonds, remarkable for their purity and brilliancy.

For several days Mr. Cutler and Mr. Appleton sat at the same table, and were quietly observant of this lovely woman.

She came and went, apparently unconscious of their notice or admiration, was gently dignified in her bearing and modest in her deportment, and the two gentlemen became more and more interested in her.

Upon inquiring, they learned that she was a young widow—a Mrs. Bently, whose husband had recently died very suddenly. He was supposed to have been very wealthy, but, there being no children, there was some trouble about the settlement of the property, and she was boarding in the city until matters should be adjusted, when she contemplated going abroad.

She seemed to be an entire stranger to every one, and very much alone, save for the companionship of a maid, by whom she was always attended, except at meal-time. Mr. Appleton was called from the city about ten days after his attention was first called to her, but his friend, Mr. Cutler, was still a guest at the hotel, and before the expiration of another week he had managed to make the acquaintance of the fascinating widow.

The more he saw of her the more deeply interested he became, until he began to realize that his interest was fast merging into a sentiment of a more tender nature.

Mr. Cutler was an energetic young broker, and report said that he was rapidly amassing a fortune, and ere long would be rated rich among rich men. He was fine-looking, very genial and social in his nature, and so, of course, was a general favorite wherever he went.

His admiration for Mrs. Bently soon became the subject of remark among his acquaintances at the hotel, and they predicted that the fair and wealthy widow would soon capture the gallant and successful broker.

Six weeks spent in the attractive widow's society convinced Justin Cutler that she was as lovely in character as in person. She was remarkably sweet-tempered, very devout, and charitable beyond degree. She would never listen to or indulge in gossip of any kind; on the contrary, she always had something kind and pleasant to say to every one.

Upon several occasions, Mr. Cutler invited her to attend the theatre, lectures and concerts, and she honored him by graciously accepting his attentions; while, occasionally, he was permitted to accompany her to church.

That faultless face, her unvarying amiability, her culture and wit, were fast weaving a spell about him, and he had decided to ask her to share his fate and fortune, when he suddenly missed her from her accustomed seat at the table, and failed to meet her about the house as usual.

For three days he did not see anything of her, and he began to be deeply troubled and anxious about her. He could not endure the suspense, and made inquiries for her. He was told that she was ill, and this, of course, did not relieve his anxiety.

On the fourth day, however, she made her appearance again at dinner, but looking so pale and sad, that his heart went out to her with deeper tenderness than ever.

He waited in one of the parlors until she came out from the dining-room. She made her appearance just as a lady, one of the hotel guests, was leaving the room. With eagerness he stepped forward to greet her, and then, with kind solicitude, inquired regarding her recent illness.

"Thank you, Mr. Cutler; I have not been really ill," she said, with a pathetic little quiver of her red lips, "but—I am in deep trouble; I have had bad news."

"I am very sorry," returned the young broker, in a tone of earnest sympathy. "Shall I be presuming if I inquire the nature of your ill-tidings?"

She smiled up at him gratefully.

"Oh, no, and you are very kind. It—it is only a business trouble," she said, a vivid flush dyeing her fair cheek; "but being a woman, perhaps I cannot meet it with quite the fortitude of a man."

"Can I help you in any way?" the gentleman asked, eagerly. "Come into the little reception-parlor yonder—there is no one there—and confide in me, if you will honor me so far."

The fair widow took the arm he offered her, and he led her within the room, and shut the door.

"Sit here," he said, placing a comfortable rocker for her, then he sat opposite her, and waited for her to open her heart to him.

"You know," she began, falteringly, "that I have lost my husband; he died several months ago, and there has been some trouble about the settlement of his estate.

"His relatives contested the will, but my lawyer has always assured me that he could at least secure a handsome amount for me, even if he could not win the whole. But the first of this week, I learned that I am to have almost nothing—that there was not nearly as much as at first supposed, and Mr. Bently's relatives will get that: and so—I am penniless."

"Oh, not so badly off as that, I hope!" exclaimed Mr. Cutler, looking grave.

"It is true. My lawyer's charges will take every dollar that is coming to me, and—oh! it is humiliating to tell you of it—I owe a great deal of money here at this hotel, besides. I never dreamed," she went on, hurriedly, and flushing hotly again, "but that I could pay my bills. I thought that I should have a large fortune, and I—I am afraid that I have been very extravagant: but now—I do not know what I shall do."

Mr. Cutler saw that she was in a very perplexing situation, and she seemed so crushed by it that all his tenderest sympathies were enlisted.

"If you would allow me to lend you any amount," he began, when the widow showed him the first burst of temper that he had ever seen her exhibit.

"Sir, do you suppose I would borrow what I could never expect to pay?" she cried, with almost passionate scorn, and flushing to her temples.

"I beg your pardon," Justin Cutler returned, feeling almost as if he had been guilty of an inexcusable insult; "believe me, I would not wish to put you under any obligation that would be burdensome."

Then he asked himself if it would be safe for him to tell her of his love then and there, lay his fortune at her feet, and thus relieve her from her present trouble and all anxiety for the future.

But he feared she might resent the offer, coming at such a time—think it was prompted more by pity than affection, and reject it as scornfully as she had refused his offer of a loan.

She was very attractive as she sat there before him, her white hands folded on her lap, her eyes cast down in troubled thought, and a grieved expression about her beautiful mouth, and he longed, with all the earnestness of his generous nature, to help her in this emergency.

Suddenly his face lighted.

"Are you willing to confide in me the amount of your indebtedness, Mrs.
Bently?" he gently asked.

She falteringly named a sum that staggered him, and told him that she had indeed been very extravagant.

"I—I have always had what I wanted. I have never had to count the cost of anything, for my husband was very generous and indulgent," she apologized, with evident embarrassment, as she met his grave look.

"May I make a practical suggestion without the fear of offending you?" the young man questioned, with some confusion.

"Oh, if you would!" cried his companion, eagerly, her face brightening, while she uttered a sigh of relief, as if she expected that his suggestion, whatever it might be, would lift the burden from her heart.

"You have some very costly jewels," Mr. Cutler remarked, the color deepening in his cheek as he glanced at the flashing stones in her ears; "perhaps you would be willing to dispose of them and thus relieve yourself from your present embarrassment."

"Oh, you mean sell my—my diamonds?" cried the lovely widow, with a little nervous sob, and instantly her two white hands went up to her ears, covering the blazing gems from his sight, while a painful flush leaped to her brow and lost itself beneath the soft rings of her burnished hair.

"Yes," pursued Mr. Cutler, wondering at her confusion. "If I am any judge, they are very valuable stones, and I suppose you might realize a handsome sum upon them."

He was secretly planning to redeem them and restore them to her later, if she should favorably regard his suit.

"But—but;" and her confusion became intensified a hundred-fold, "they aren't real. I'd be glad enough if they were, and would willingly sell them to cancel my indebtedness, but they are only paste, although an excellent imitation."

Her companion regarded her with astonishment.

"You surely do not mean that?" he exclaimed, "for if I ever saw pure white diamonds, those which you wear are certainly genuine."

"No, they are not," she returned, shaking her head with a positive air. "I am very fond of diamonds and I had some very nice ones once, but they were stolen from me just after my husband died. I could not afford to replace them, just then, and I had these made to wear until I could do so. They were made in Paris, where they are very clever at such work. I hoped when my husband's estate was settled, I could have some real stones again; but, of course, I cannot now," she regretfully concluded.

"Will you allow me to examine them, please?" Mr. Cutler asked, still sure that the stones were genuine.

Mrs. Bently unhesitatingly removed one of the crescent ornaments from her ear and laid it in his hand.

He examined it critically and was still confident that it was really composed of precious gems. He believed that if she had had them made to order to replace the stolen ones, either the jeweler had been guilty of a wretched blunder, or else some friend had interposed to replace the jewels which she so regretted.

"I am sure there is some mistake. I am confident that these are real diamonds and very valuable," he asserted, positively.

"Oh, no, they are not," she repeated, with grave assurance.

Then she naïvely added, and with a little ripple of laughter:

"I am glad to know that they are so good an imitation as to deceive you. There is some comfort in that, although it is not pleasant to have to acknowledge the sham."

Still her companion was not convinced. Surely no paste jewels ever emitted such a brilliant white light as those which lay upon his palm, catching and reflecting the various colors about them in such dazzling gleams.

"Would you be willing to go with me to some reliable jeweler and have them tested?" he asked.

The lovely woman flushed crimson.

"No, I couldn't do that; I should not like to—to have it known that I had been wearing such things," she said. "To be sure," she added, with a quick upward glance that made her companion thrill with secret joy, "I have confessed it to you, but you were so kind and sympathetic I—I trusted you involuntarily."

"Thank you," Justin Cutler returned, a brilliant smile lighting his face, and he longed to open his heart to her, but deemed it better to wait a while. "Then, if you would not like to go with me, will you trust the stones with me, and allow me to have them tested for you?"

"Of course I will, if you want to take that trouble; though," she added, with a little skeptical laugh, as she removed the crescent from her other ear and gave it to him, "I assure you the trust isn't such a responsible one as you imagine."

"We shall see," he smilingly responded, as he put the ornaments carefully in his purse and arose, "I shall submit them to some reliable dealer in diamonds, get him to set a value upon them, and will inform you of the verdict this evening."

"Thank you, Mr. Cutler—you are very kind to be so interested for me," the beautiful woman gratefully murmured.

"I would I might," the young man began, eagerly, then suddenly checked himself and added, "might assist you in some way regarding your other troubles."

Again he had been on the point of declaring himself, but told himself that the moment was not a propitious one.

"I am afraid it is too late for that," she responded, with a sigh; "the case is settled, and Mr. Bently's relatives have won. But, good-by—do not let me detain you longer."

"I will see you again this evening," he returned, adding, as he passed out of the room: "I will be very careful of your property, and hope to bring you a good report."

Mrs. Bently shrugged her graceful shoulders indifferently, as if she had no faith in his belief, and felt that it would be but a small loss if the jewels were never returned. Then, with a smile and a bow, she went up stairs to her own rooms.

CHAPTER II.

THE VICTIM OF A WOMAN'S WILES.

Justin Cutler, after leaving the hotel, went directly to one of the first jewelers of the city, a well-known diamond expert, and submitted Mrs. Bently's ornaments to his judgment.

"They are remarkably fine stones." Mr. Arnold remarked, after having carefully examined them through a microscope; "very pure and clear, most of them without a flaw. So far as I can see, there is not one of them that is in the least off-color."

"I thought so," was Mr. Cutler's inward and exultant comment; but he simply asked, as if he accepted the man's verdict as a matter of course: "What is your estimate of their value?"

"Well," said the jeweler, smiling, "if you wish to know their real value just for your own satisfaction, I can give it; but that might considerably exceed the amount I should be willing to name in case you might wish to dispose of them to me."

"I understand," Mr. Cutler returned; "but what would they be worth to you—what would you be willing to give for the stones?"

Mr. Arnold considered the matter a few moments, and then named a sum which Mr. Cutler deemed a fair price under the circumstances, and one which he felt sure Mrs. Bently would be only too glad to secure in her emergency.

"You make that offer for them, then—you will purchase them if the lady agrees to take the sum you have named?" he asked.

"Yes, and the offer shall be open for her acceptance or refusal for three days."

"Thank you; I will see you again before the time expires," Mr. Cutler replied; and, taking up the diamonds, which Mr. Arnold had placed in a small box, he put them carefully away in an inside pocket and left the store.

When he returned to his hotel he sent his card up to Mrs. Bently, with a request that she would see him for a few moments in the reception-room. But he was greatly disappointed when the waiter returned and said that the lady was out.

He had an engagement for the evening, and thus he would not be able to see her until the next morning. He was somewhat troubled, for he did not like to retain her diamonds over night; but since he could not return them to her, he judged they would be safer about his person than anywhere else, and so did not remove them from his pocket.

The next morning he was early in his place at breakfast-time and anxiously awaiting the appearance of Mrs. Bently.

She soon came in, looking much brighter and fresher than she had been the day before, and he noticed that she was in her traveling-dress.

Could she be contemplating leaving the hotel? he asked himself, with a sudden sense of depression.

She smiled and bowed as she passed him, and he remarked, in a low tone, as he returned her salutation:

"I will wait for you in the reception-room."

She nodded assent, but a gleam of amusement shot into her expressive eyes, which he interpreted to mean that she believed he had failed in his errand and would be obliged to acknowledge the truth of what she had told him about her ornaments.

This thought greatly elated him, and he chuckled to himself as he imagined her astonishment when he should inform her of the offer of the diamond merchant.

He soon finished his breakfast and repaired to the reception-room, where he drew forth his morning paper to while away the time until Mrs. Bently should appear.

But she did not hurry, and he began to grow impatient. Evidently she had no faith in the genuineness of the stones, and had no intention of spoiling her breakfast just to be told what she already knew.

It was nearly half an hour before she came to him, but he could forgive her for making him wait, for her greeting was unusually cordial, and she seemed lovelier than ever in her pretty dress of dark gray trimmed with black. It was made very high at the throat, and fitted her perfect form like a glove. Her face was like a flawless pearl, and he had begun to think the soft ruddy rings that crowned her milk-white brow and made her look so youthful, the most beautiful hair in the world.

He sprang to his feet, his face all aglow, and went forward to take the hand she extended to him.

"I have such good news for you, Mrs. Bently," he said, as he drew the little box from his pocket. "Your gems are real after all," and he slipped them into her hand as he spoke.

She lifted a startled, incredulous look to his face.

"You cannot mean it—you are only jesting!" she cried.

"Indeed no; I would not jest and I do mean just what I have said," he persisted.

"Impossible! Why, Mr. Cutler, I gave less than ten dollars for the crescents."

The young man looked blank.

"Then some one has made an expensive blunder, and set real diamonds for you instead of paste. Where did you purchase them—or order them made?"

"Of Hardowin & Leroux, under the Palais Royal, Paris, less than a year ago," Mrs. Bently promptly responded.

"It does not seem possible that any one could have made such a costly mistake," Justin Cutler said, looking perplexed. "It is almost incredible."

"Yes, and I am just as astonished by your report," his companion said, lifting the cover of the box and gazing upon the blazing stones. "They do look wonderfully real," she added, "and yet I can hardly believe, Mr. Cutler, that any one would be willing to purchase them and give me the value of diamonds."

"But the gentleman to whom I submitted them—a jeweler and an expert—made me an offer for them," and he named the sum.

"So much?" murmured the fair woman, flushing. "Ah, it would be such a help."

"This offer," Mr. Cutler resumed, "is to remain open to you for three days, and you can take them to him within that time if you see fit, and Mr. Arnold will give you the money."

Mrs. Bently made a sudden gesture of repulsion, her head drooped, a flush swept up to her brow, and tears rushed to her eyes.

"Poor little woman!" said Justin Cutler to himself, "it humiliates her to think of selling her jewels—of course it must."

Then he asked, after a moment of thought:

"Would you accept the amount that Mr. Arnold offered?"

"Why, yes, if—if you are sure that they are real, and think it would be right for me to do so," she answered, with a somewhat troubled expression on her fair face.

"Of course it will be perfectly right; the man knew what he was talking about, for, as I told you, he is a diamond expert, and he examined them with the utmost care."

"The amount would be very acceptable," said the fair widow, musingly, "and I shall be glad to sell them; but—"

"The thought of going personally to sell your jewels humiliates you," the generous-hearted young man added; "then let me do it for you, and relieve you of the disagreeable task."

"How kind you are; how you read my very thoughts; but I do not like to trouble you," murmured the beautiful woman, with a quiver of her red lips and a thrilling glance. "And yet," she continued, "I must have money at once. I was going to my lawyer this morning to beg him to try and raise something for me in some way, for I must settle my bill here to-day. I have dismissed my maid and engaged a room at No. 10 —— street, and am going there this afternoon. Oh! Mr. Cutler, it is very hard to be obliged to confess my poverty," and she had to abruptly cease her remarks, in order to preserve her self-control, for she seemed upon the point of breaking down utterly.

"Mrs. Bently," said the young man, with sudden impulse, "let me relieve you from all unpleasantness; let me advance you the sum which Mr. Arnold named; then I can take the crescents to him and he will make it right with me."

A peculiar smile lingered about his lips as he concluded.

"That is exceedingly kind of you," Mrs. Bently said, gratefully, "but, truly, Mr. Cutler, I am almost afraid to take you at your word."

"Why?"

"Because I have always regarded the crescents as paste, and—and I cannot quite divest myself of the idea even now, in spite of your assurance," she answered, with a clouded brow.

Her companion laughed aloud.

"I will be responsible for their genuineness," he returned. "See!" he added, drawing a card from his pocket and writing rapidly upon it. "I will give you this to ease your conscience."

She took it and read:

"I, the undersigned, purchase of Mrs. Bently a pair of crescent ornaments which she affirms are paste, but which I am content to accept as genuine, for the sum agreed upon."

The price was carried out in figures, and his full name signed underneath.

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes.

"You are determined to befriend me, in spite of my scruples," she murmured, brokenly.

"I would gladly do a hundred-fold more for you," he replied, with tender earnestness. "Will you let me have the crescents now?"

"Yes, and thank you more than I can express," she answered, with drooping lids.

He drew forth a wallet filled with bills, and began to count out the sum he had named.

"Wait a moment," said Mrs. Bently, the color mounting to her temples; "I have a handsome case for the ornaments. I will go and get it for you."

She turned suddenly and vanished from his presence, before he could tell her he would rather take them in the little box.

"How sensitive the poor child is!" he murmured, with a tender smile; "she could not even bear to see me count out the money."

Mrs. Bently soon returned with a handsome morocco case in her hands.

"They look better in this," she remarked, as she lifted the lid, and revealed the crescents lying upon a rich black velvet bed; "and," with a nervous little laugh, "now that I know they are genuine, I really am very loath to part with them, in spite of my necessity."

She closed the case with a snap, and passed it to him, and he slipped a roll of crisp bank-bills into her hand.

"This arrangement will smooth all difficulties, I trust," he said, "and now," with a slight tremor in his voice, "I have a special favor to ask. May I come to see you at No. 10 —— street?"

"Certainly, you may, Mr. Cutler," she replied, lifting a bright, eager face to him, "and I assure you I shall have a warmer welcome for no one else. I cannot tell you how grateful I am—"

"Do not speak of that," he interposed. "I am amply repaid for anything I have done by seeing the look of trouble gone from your face. I must bid you good morning now, but I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon you very soon."

He held out his hand to her, and she laid hers within it. He was surprised to find it icy cold and trembling, but he attributed it to emotion caused by the parting with him.

"Then I shall only say au revoir," she responded, smiling.

She looked so lovely that he longed to draw her within his arms and take a more tender leave of her, but again putting a curb upon himself, he simply bowed, and left her, when with a quick, elastic step, she swept up stairs to her own apartments.

Justin Cutler was very busy all the morning, and did not find time to go to the jeweler's until the afternoon.

He had no intention of disposing of the crescents—he simply wished to tell him that he had himself concluded to purchase them, and then ask the privilege of depositing them in Mr. Arnold's safe for a few days; for they were to be his gift to the woman he loved, if she received his suit with favor.

The gentleman was in, and his eyes lighted as his glance fell upon the case which Mr. Cutler laid upon the show-case, for he believed that, in purchasing the crescents, he was going to get an unusually good bargain.

"Ah," he remarked, "the lady has decided to dispose of the stones?"

"Yes; but—" Mr. Cutler began, when he suddenly stopped, and gazed, astonished, at the man.

He had taken the case, opened it, and started in dismay as he saw what were within, while a look of blank consternation overspread his face.

Then he turned sternly, almost fiercely, upon the young man.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, in a threatening tone. "Did you imagine you could cheat me in this miserable way? You have got hold of the wrong customer if you did."

"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Mr. Cutler, amazed, but flushing angrily at being addressed so uncivilly.

"These are not the stones you brought to me yesterday," said Mr. Arnold, who was also very angry.

"Sir!" exclaimed Justin Cutler, aghast, but with haughty mien.

"They are nothing but paste," continued the jeweler, eyeing the beautiful crescents with disdain; "and," he added, menacingly, "I've a mind to have you arrested on the spot for attempting to obtain money under false pretenses."

Mr. Cutler grew pale at this with mingled anger and a sudden fear.

He reached across the counter and took the case from Mr. Arnold's hand.

He turned the stones to the light.

At the first glance they seemed to be all right—he could detect nothing wrong; for aught that he could see the crescents were the same which he had submitted to the merchant the day before. But as he studied them more closely the gleam of the gems was entirely different—the fire of the genuine diamond was lacking.

"Can it be possible that I have been duped, swindled?" he exclaimed, with white lips and a sinking heart.

"I should say, rather, that you were attempting to dupe and swindle some one else," sarcastically retorted the diamond dealer. "The stones are a remarkably fine imitation, I am free to confess, and would easily deceive a casual observer; but if you have ever tried and succeeded in this clever game before, you are certainly caught this time."

"Mr. Arnold, I assure you that I am blameless in this matter—that I honestly believed the jewels to be the same that I brought to you yesterday," the young man said, with an earnest directness which convinced the gentleman that he spoke the truth. "I see now," he continued, "that they are not; and"—a feeling of faintness almost overpowering him as he realized all that this experience would cost him, aside from his pecuniary loss—"I have been outrageously deceived and hoodwinked, for I have already advanced the sum you named to the woman who wished to dispose of the diamonds."

Mr. Arnold searched the manly face before him, and was forced to believe in the truth of his statements.

"If that is so, then you have indeed been wretchedly swindled," he said; "for these crescents are but duplicates in paste of those I examined yesterday. How did you happen to be so taken in?"

Mr. Cutler briefly related the circumstances, and when he concluded, Mr.
Arnold remarked:

"The woman was an accomplished cheat, and led you on very adroitly. Your mistake was in advancing the money for the stones; if you had brought these things to me first, you would have saved yourself this loss. But of course she never would have allowed that; her game was to get the money from you, and she worked you finely for it."

Mr. Cutler groaned in spirit as he realized it all, and how he had tied his own hands by what he had written on the card that he had given to the wily woman.

He kept this portion of the transaction to himself, however; he could not confess how foolishly weak he had been. Surely his infatuation for the beautiful widow had led him beyond all bounds of common sense and good judgment; but he had no one but himself to blame, and he must bear his loss as best he could. His lost faith in womanhood was the heaviest part of it.

"I sincerely regret having put you to so much trouble, Mr. Arnold," he courteously remarked, as he closed the jewel-case and put it out of sight, "and as a favor, I would ask that you regard this matter as strictly confidential. I have been miserably fooled, and met with a heavy loss, but I do not wish all Chicago to ring with the story."

"You may trust me, and accept my assurance that I am sincerely sorry for you," the jeweler returned, in a tone of sympathy, and now entirely convinced of the honesty of the young man. "And let me tell you," he added, "for your personal benefit, while examining those crescents yesterday, I put a private mark on the back of the settings with a steel-pointed instrument; it was like this"—making a cipher on a card and passing it to him. "If you should ever be fortunate enough to come across them again, you could identify them by it."

"Thank you," Mr. Cutler returned, as he put it carefully away.

Then he wished the gentleman a polite good-day, and went out of the store, a wiser, but a somewhat poorer, man than he had been the previous day.

He was almost crushed by the wrong which had been perpetrated against him. He had been thoroughly and artfully deceived. Mrs. Bently—if indeed that was her real name, which he doubted—had seemed such a modest and unassuming woman, so frank, and sweet, and ingenuous, that he would have indignantly resented it had any one hinted to him that she was not all that she appeared to be.

He had never met any woman who possessed such power to charm him, and yet she had never seemed to seek his notice—had never appeared to thrust herself upon him in any way. He had instead sought her and been especially attracted to her by the very simplicity and naturalness of her deportment; and this rude awakening to the fact of her duplicity was therefore far more bitter than the loss of his money, although that was considerable.

He was greatly depressed, but, on leaving Mr. Arnold's store, he proceeded directly to the street and number which she had given as her future place of residence. It proved to be an empty house with the sign "To Rent" staring at him from several windows.

He next sought for the lawyer who, Mrs. Bently had told him, had conducted her business affairs. There was no such person to be found.

Then, his indignation getting the better of his grief and disappointment, he sought a detective, told his story, and gave the case into his hands.

"Keep the matter quiet, Rider," he said, "but spare no expense to find the woman. If she is a professional thief, she will try the same trick on some one else; and though we may not be able to bring her to justice in this case, since I so rashly tied my hands by giving her that writing, yet I should like to give my evidence against her for the benefit of some other unfortunate victim."

Thus the matter rested for the time, and Justin Cutler once more threw himself heart and soul into business, vowing that he would never trust a woman again.

"But I'll keep the bogus crescents, to remind me of my folly, for of course I shall never see the real ones again."

Did he?

CHAPTER III.

MONA.

"Mona, come here, dear, please."

A gentleman, of perhaps forty-five, looked up from the desk where he had been writing, as he uttered this request; but his voice trembled slightly, and was replete with tenderness, as he spoke the name which heads this chapter.

The girl whom he addressed was sitting by a window on the opposite side of the room, and she lifted her bright brown head and turned a pair of dark, liquid eyes upon the speaker.

"Yes, Uncle Walter," she cheerfully responded, as, laying down her book, she arose and moved gracefully across the room toward the handsome, aristocratic-looking man at the desk, who watched her every motion with a fond intentness that betrayed a deep and absorbing affection for her.

He frowned slightly, however, as she spoke, and a half-bitter, half-scornful smile curled his finely chiseled lips for an instant.

The young girl was tall and exquisitely formed, but her face was one not easily described. Her features were delicate and clearly defined, yet with a certain roundness about them such as one sees in a faultlessly sculptured statue, while unusual strength of character was written indelibly upon them. Her hair was slightly curly, and arranged with a careful carelessness that was very becoming, while here and there a stray ringlet, that had escaped the silver pin that confined it, seemed to coquet with the delicate fairness of her neck and brow.

Reaching her uncle's side, she laid one white hand upon his shoulder, then slid it softly about his neck.

"What is it, Uncle Walter? What, makes you look so sober? Have I done something naughty that you are going to scold me for?" she concluded, playfully, as she bent forward and looked archly into his eyes.

His face grew luminous instantly as he met her gaze, while he captured her small hand and toyed with the rosy, taper fingers.

"Do I look sober?" and a brilliant smile chased the gloom from lip and brow. "I did not mean to, while you know I could not scold you if you were ever so naughty, and you are never that."

"Perhaps every one does not look upon me with your partial eyes," the lovely girl returned, with a musical little laugh.

The man carried the hand he held to his lips and kissed it lingeringly.

"Let me see," he remarked, after thinking a moment, "isn't it somebody's birthday to-day?"

"So it is! but I had not thought of it before," exclaimed the maiden, with a lovely flush sweeping into her cheeks. "And," with a far-away look in her eyes, "I am eighteen years old."

"Eighteen!" and Walter Dinsmore started slightly, while a vivid red suddenly dyed his brow, and a look of pain settled about his mouth.

But he soon conquered his emotion, whatever it might have been, and strove to say, lightly:

"Well, then, somebody must have a gift. What would you like, Mona?"

She laughed out sweetly again at the question.

"You know I have very strange notions about gifts, Uncle Walter," she said. "I do not care much about having people buy me pretty or costly things as most girls do; I like something that has been made or worn or prized by the giver—something that thought and care have been exercised upon. The little bouquet of blue-fringed gentians which you walked five miles to gather for me last year was the most precious gift I had; I have it now, Uncle Walter."

"You quaint child!" said the man, with a quiver of strong feeling in his tone. "You would like something prized by the giver, would you?" he added, musingly. "Well, you shall be gratified."

He turned again to his desk as he spoke, unlocked and pulled out a drawer.

"Would you like this?" he asked, as he uncovered a box about eight inches square.

"Why, it is a mirror! and what a queer one!" exclaimed the maiden, as she bent forward to look, and found her lovely, earnest face reflected from a square, slightly defaced mirror that was set in an ebony frame richly inlaid with gold and pearl.

"Yes, dear, and it once belonged to Marie Antoinette. Doubtless it reflected her face many times during the latter half of the last century, as it now reflects yours, my Mona," said Mr. Dinsmore.

"To Marie Antoinette?" repeated Mona, breathlessly, "to the Queen of
France? and would you give it to me—me, Uncle Walter?"

"Yes, I have kept it for you many years, dear," the man answered, but turning away from her eager, delighted eyes and glowing face, as if something in them smote him with sudden pain.

"Oh! thank you, thank you! It is a priceless gift. What can I say? How can I show you how delighted I am?" Mona cried, eagerly.

"By simply accepting it and taking good care of it, and also by giving me your promise that you will never part with it while you live," Mr. Dinsmore gravely replied.

"Of course I would never part with it," the young girl returned, flushing. "The mere fact of your giving it to me would make it precious, not to mention that it is a royal mirror and once belonged to that beautiful but ill-fated queen. How did it happen to come into your possession, Uncle Walter?"

The man grew pale at this question, but after a moment he replied, though with visible effort:

"It was given to your great grandmother by a Madame Roquemaure, an intimate friend, who was at one time a lady in waiting at the court of Louis the Sixteenth."

"What was her name?" eagerly asked Mona—"my grandmother's, I mean."

"She was a French lady and her maiden name was Ternaux, and when her friend, Madame Roquemaure, died, she bequeathed to her this mirror, which once graced the dressing-room of Marie Antoinette in the Tuileries."

"What a prize!" breathed Mona, as she gazed reverently upon the royal relic. "May I take it, Uncle Walter?"

"Certainly," and the man lifted it from the box and laid it in her hands.

"How heavy it is!" she exclaimed, flushing and trembling with excitement, as she clasped the precious treasure.

"Yes, the frame is of ebony and quite a massive one," said Mr. Dinsmore.

"It looks like a shallow box with the mirror for a cover; but of course it isn't, as there is no way to get into it," observed the young girl, examining it closely.

Her companion made no reply, but regarded her earnestly, while his face was pale and his lips compressed with an expression of pain.

"And this has been handed down from generation to generation!" Mona went on, musingly. "Have you had it all these years, Uncle Walter—ever since you first took me?"

"Yes, and I have been keeping it for you until you should reach your eighteenth birthday. It is yours now, my Mona, but you must never part with it—it is to be an heir-loom. And if you should ever be married, if you should have children, you are to give it to your eldest daughter. And, oh! my child," the agitated man continued, as he arose and laid his hands upon her shoulders and looked wistfully into her beautiful face, "I hope, I pray, that your life may be a happy one."

"Why, Uncle Walter, how solemn you have grown all at once!" cried the young girl, looking up at him with a smile half startled, half gay, "One would think you were giving me some sacred charge that is to affect all my future life, instead of this lovely mirror that has such a charming and romantic history. I wish," she went on, thoughtfully, "you would tell me just how you came to have it. Did it descend to you from your father's or your mother's ancestors?"

The man sat down again before he replied, and turned his face slightly away from her gaze as he said:

"It really belonged to your mother, dear, instead of to me, for it has always been given to the eldest daughter on the mother's side; so, after your mother died, I treasured it to give to you when you should be old enough to appreciate it."

"I wish you would tell me more about my mother, Uncle Walter," the young girl said, wistfully, after a moment of silence. "You have never seemed willing to talk about her—you have always evaded and put me off when I asked you anything, until I have grown to feel as if there were some mystery connected with her. But surely I am old enough now, and have a right to know her history. Was she your only sister, and how did it happen that she died all alone in London? Where was my father? and why was she left so poor when you had so much? Really, Uncle Walter, I think I ought to insist upon being told all there is to know about my parents and myself. You have often said you would tell me some time; why not now?"

"Yes, yes, child, you are old enough, if that were all," the man returned, with livid lips, a shudder shaking his strong frame from head to foot.

Mona also grew very pale as she observed him, and a look of apprehension swept over her face at his ominous words.

"Was there anything wrong about mamma?" she began, tremulously.

"No, no!" Mr. Dinsmore interposed, almost passionately; "she was the purest and loveliest woman in the world, and her fate was the saddest in the world."

"And my father?" breathed the girl, trembling visibly.

"Was a wretch! a faithless brute!" was the low, stern reply.

"What became of him?"

"Do not ask me, child," the excited man returned, almost fiercely, but white to his lips, "he deserves only your hatred and contempt, as he has mine. Your mother, as you have been told, died in London, a much wronged and broken-hearted woman, where she had lived for nearly three months in almost destitute circumstances. The moment I learned of her sad condition I hastened to London to give her my care and protection; but she was gone—she had died three days before my arrival, and I found only a wee little baby awaiting my care and love."

A bitter sob burst from the man's lips at this point, but after struggling for a moment for self-control, he resumed:

"That baby was, of course, yourself, and I named you Mona for your mother, and Ruth for mine. The names do not go together very well, but I loved them both so well I wanted you to bear them, I gave you in charge of a competent nurse, with instructions that everything should be done for your comfort and welfare; then I sought to drown my grief in travel and constant change of scene. When I returned to London you were nearly two years old and a lovely, winning child, I brought you, with your nurse, to America, resolving that you should always have the tenderest love and care; and Mona, my darling, I have tried to make your life a happy one."

"And you have succeeded. Uncle Walter, I have never known a sorrow, you have been my best and dearest friend, and I love you—I love you with all my heart," the fair girl cried, as she threw her arm about his neck and pressed her quivering lips to his corrugated brow.

Mr. Dinsmore folded her close to his breast, and held her there in a silent embrace for a moment.

But Mona's mind was intent upon hearing the remainder of his story; and, gently disengaging herself, she continued:

"But tell me—there is much more that I want to know. What was the reason—why did my father—"

She was suddenly cut short in her inquiries by the opening of a door and the entrance of a servant.

"There is a caller for you in the drawing-room, Miss Mona," the girl remarked, as she extended to her the silver salver, on which there lay a dainty bit of pasteboard.

Mona took it and read the name engraved upon it.

"It is Susie Leades," she said, a slight look of annoyance sweeping over her face, "and I suppose I must go; but you will tell me the rest some other time, Uncle Walter? I shall never be content until I know all there is to know about my father and mother."

"Yes—yes; some other time I will tell you more," Mr. Dinsmore said, but with a sigh of relief, as if he were glad of this interruption in the midst of a disagreeable subject.

"I will leave the mirror here until I come back," Mona said, as she laid it again in its box in the drawer; then, softly kissing her companion on the lips, she went slowly and reluctantly from the room.

The moment the door had closed after her, Walter Dinsmore, the proud millionaire and one of New York's most respected and prominent citizens, dropped his head upon the desk before him and groaned aloud:

"How can I ever tell her?" he cried. "Oh, Mona, Mona! I have tried to do right by your little girl—I have tried to make her life bright and happy; must I cloud it now by revealing the wrong and sorrow of yours? Must I tell her?"

A sob burst from him, and then for some time he lay perfectly still, as if absorbed in deep thought.

At length he lifted his head, and, with a resolute look on his fine face, drew some paper before him and began to write rapidly.

At the expiration of half an hour he folded what he had written, put it in an envelope, and carefully sealed it, then turning it over, wrote "For Mona" on the back.

This done he took up the mirror which he had but just given the young girl, pressed hard upon one of the pearl and gold points with which the frame was thickly studded, and the bottom dropped down like a tiny drawer, revealing within it a package composed of half a dozen letters and a small pasteboard box.

The man was deadly pale, and his hands trembled as he took these out and began to look over the letters.

But, as if the task were too great for him, he almost immediately replaced them in their envelopes, and restored them to the drawer in the mirror. Then he uncovered the little box, and two small rings were exposed to view—one a heavy gold band, the other set with a whole pearl of unusual size and purity.

"Poor Mona!" he almost sobbed, as he touched them with reverent fingers. "I shall never be reconciled to your sad fate, and I cannot bring myself to tell your child the whole truth, at least not now. I will tell her something—just enough to satisfy her, if she questions me again—the rest I have written, and I will hide the story with these things in the mirror; then in my will I will reveal its secret, so that Mona can find them. She will be older, and perhaps happily settled in life by the time I get through, and so better able to bear the truth."

He replaced the box and letters in the secret drawer of the mirror, also the envelope which contained what he had written, after which he carefully closed it, and returned the royal relic to the box in his desk.

"There! everything is as safe as if it were buried in Mona's grave—no one would ever think of looking for that history in such a place, and the secret will never be disclosed until I see fit to reveal it."

He had scarcely completed these arrangements when Mona re-entered the room, her face bright and smiling, a lovely flush on her cheeks, a brilliant light in her liquid brown eyes.

"Well, my pet, you look pretty enough to kiss," exclaimed Mr. Dinsmore, assuming a lightness of manner which he was far from feeling. "Have you had a pleasant call?"

"Indeed I have, Uncle Walter, and I have also had an invitation to attend the opera to-night," Mona replied, with increasing color.

"Ah! then I imagine that Miss Susie did not come alone, eh?" and Mr.
Dinsmore smiled roguishly.

"No; Mr. Palmer was with her; and just as they were at the door, he discovered that he had forgotten his cards, so he just penciled his name on the back of Susie's; but I did not see it, and of course did not know he was here until I went into the drawing-room," the young girl explained.

"Palmer! Ray Palmer, the son of Amos Palmer, the diamond merchant?" questioned Mr. Dinsmore.

"Yes, I have met him a number of times during the past year, and at Susie's birthday party last week he asked permission to call. May I go to-night, Uncle Walter?" Mona asked, with downcast eyes.

"Who else is to be in the party?" gravely inquired her uncle.

"Susie, and Louis, her brother."

"Then I have no objection to your going also," said Mr. Dinsmore; then he added, as he searched the beautiful face beside him: "I know that Ray Palmer is an exceptionally fine young man, and any girl might feel honored in receiving his attentions. Is he agreeable to you, Mona?"

A vivid scarlet suffused the maiden's face at this pointed question, and the gentleman laughed out softly as he beheld it.

"Never mind, dear," he continued, lightly. "I am already answered, and
Mr. Ray Palmer has my best wishes for his future success and happiness.
There, run back now, and tell your callers that you will join their
party."

A shy, sweet smile wreathed Mona's lips as she again left the room.

But she was not gone, long—scarcely five minutes had elapsed before she returned, and gliding to Mr. Dinsmore's side, she said, with quiet resolution:

"Now, Uncle Walter, I want to hear the remainder of what you have to tell me about my father and mother."

CHAPTER IV.

MONA ASKS SOME PERTINENT QUESTIONS.

Mr. Dinsmore's face clouded instantly at Mona's request, but after thinking a moment, he threw back his head with a resolute air, and said:

"There is not so very much more to tell, Mona—it is the oft repeated story of too much love and trust on the part of a pure and lovely woman, and of selfish pleasure and lack of principle on the part of the man who won her. When your mother was eighteen—just your age to-day, dear—she fell in love with Richmond Montague, and secretly married him."

"Then she was legally his wife!" burst forth Mona, with pale and trembling lips. "Oh, I have so feared, from your reluctance to tell me my mother's history, that—that there was some shame connected with it."

"No—no, dear child; set your heart at rest upon that score. She was legally married to Richmond Montague; but his first sin against her was in not making the fact public. He was just starting on a tour abroad and persuaded her to go with him. He claimed that he could not openly marry her without forfeiting a large fortune from an aunt, whose only heir he was, and who was determined that he should marry the daughter of a life-long friend. She was in feeble health and wanted him to be married before he went abroad, as she feared she might not live until he should come back. This he refused to do, although he allowed her to believe that he intended to marry Miss Barton upon his return. But he did marry your mother, and they sailed for Europe.

"They spent a few months traveling together, but while they were in Paris, your father suddenly disappeared, and it became evident to your mother that she had been deserted. To make matters worse, the people of the house where they had been living became suspicious of her, accused her of having been living unlawfully, and drove her away. She was desperate, and went directly to London, intending to return to America, but was taken ill there, and was unable to go on.

"Three months later I learned, indirectly, of her wretched condition, and I hastened to her, as I have already told you, only to find that I was too late—she had died just three days before my arrival, and only a few hours after your birth. Oh, Mona! I was heartbroken, for she was all I had, and the knowledge of her wrongs and sufferings drove me nearly wild; but—I cannot live over those wretched days—I simply endured them then because I could not help myself. But, as time passed, I gradually learned to love you—you became my one object in life, and I vowed that I would do everything in my power to make your life happy, for your mother's sake, as well as for your own," he concluded in tremulous, husky tones, while tears stood in his eyes.

"Dear Uncle Walter, no one could have been more kind than you have been," the young girl said, nestling closer to him; "you have been both father and mother to me, and I am very grateful—"

"Hush, Mona! Never speak of gratitude to me," he said, interrupting her, "for you have been a great comfort to me; you have, indeed, taken the place of the little girl who never lived to call me father—and—have helped me to bear other troubles also," he concluded, flushing hotly, while a heavy frown contracted, his brow.

Mona glanced at him curiously, and wondered what other troubles she had helped him to bear; but her mind was so full of her own family history she did not pay much attention to it then. The remark recurred to her later, however.

"There is one thing more, Uncle Walter," she said, after a thoughtful pause. "What became of my father?"

Her companion seemed to freeze and become rigid as marble at this question.

"I wish you would not question me any further, Mona," he said, in a constrained tone. "Your father forfeited all right to that title from you before your birth. Cannot you be satisfied with what I have already told you?"

"No, I cannot," she resolutely replied. "Where did he go? What happened to him after my mother died? Has he ever been heard of since?" were the quick, imperative queries which dropped from her lips.

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dinsmore, replying to the last query; "he married Miss Barton—the girl his aunt had chosen for him—shortly after his return to this country. The woman had set her heart upon the match, and died a month after the marriage, leaving her nephew the whole of her fortune."

"Did he—my father—know that he had a child living?" demanded Mona, in a constrained tone.

"Certainly."

"And—and—" she began, with crimson cheeks and blazing eyes, then choked and stopped.

"I know what you would ask—'did he ever wish to claim you?'" supplemented her companion, a bitter smile curling his white lips. "I have never been asked to give you up, Mona," he continued, apparently putting it thus so as to wound her as little as possible; "but I should not have done so under any circumstances."

"Did he never offer to settle anything upon me out of his abundance?" the young girl asked, bitterly.

"No; no settlement, no allowance was ever made, I alone have cared for you. But do not grieve—it has been a very delightful care to me, dear," Mr. Dinsmore said, tenderly, while he stroked her soft hair fondly with a hand that was far from steady.

"Is the—man living now?" Mona demanded, a cold glitter in her usually gentle eyes.

Mr. Dinsmore threw out his hand with a gesture of agony at this question.

Then suddenly pulling himself together, he hoarsely responded:

"No."

But he turned his face away from her gaze as he said it.

"When and where did he die?"

"Do not ask me. Oh, Mona, for pity's sake, ask me nothing more. I cannot, I will not bear this inquisition any longer," the man cried, in a despairing tone.

The young girl's face blanched suddenly at this, and she turned a wild, startled look upon her companion, as a terrible suspicion flashed into her mind.

Had her uncle avenged her mother's wrongs?—was his hand stained with her father's blood, and was this the reason why he was so fearfully agitated in speaking of these things?

It was an awful thought, and for a moment, every nerve in her body tingled with pain. All her strength fled, and she dared not question him further on that point, for her own sake, as well as his.

There was a dead silence for several moments, while both struggled for the mastery of their emotions; then Mona said, in a low, awed tone:

"Just one thing more, Uncle Walter—is—his other wife living?"

"I believe so."

"Where is she?"

"I do not know."

"Did she care nothing for me?"

"No, she hated your mother, and you a hundred-fold on her account."

"That is enough—I have heard all that I wish," Mona said, coldly, as she started to her feet and stood erect and rigid before him. "You said truly when you told me that the man deserved hatred and contempt. I do hate and scorn him with all the hate and strength of my nature. I am glad he is dead. Were he living, and should he ever seek me, I would spurn him as I would spurn a viper. But oh, Uncle Walter, you must let me lean upon you more than ever before, for my heart is very, very sore over the wrong that has been done my poor mother and me. How good you have been to me—and I love you—I will always love and trust you, and I will never ask you any more questions."

She flung her arms around his neck, buried her face in his bosom, and burst into a passion of tears. The sorrowful story to which she had listened, and the fearful suspicion which, at the last, had so appalled her, had completely unnerved her.

The man clasped her to him almost convulsively, though a strong shudder shook his frame, laid his own face caressingly against her soft brown hair, and let her weep until the fountain of her tears was exhausted, and he himself had become entirely composed once more.

"My dear child," he said, at last, "let these be the last tears you ever shed for the wrong done you. I beg you will not allow the memory of it to make you unhappy, my Mona; for as I have assumed a father's care for you in the past, so I shall continue to do in the future; you shall never want for anything that I can give you while I live, and all that I have will be yours when I am gone. I have made an appointment with my lawyer for the day after to-morrow," he went on, in a more business-like tone, "when I purpose making my will, giving you the bulk of my property. I ought to have done this before; but—such matters are not pleasant to think about, and I have kept putting it off. Now dry your tears, my dear; it pains me to see you weep. And here," he added, smiling, and forcing himself to speak more lightly, "I almost forgot that I had something else for your birthday. Come, try on these trinkets, for you must wear them to the opera to-night."

He took a case from his pocket as he spoke, and slipped it into her hands.

Mona looked up surprised.

"But you have already given me the mirror, Uncle Walter," she said. "I could not have anything that I should prize more."

"Ah, well, but I could not let a birthday go by without spending a little money on you," he returned, fondly; "so look at your gifts, and let me see how they will fit."

Mona obediently opened the case, and found within a pair of narrow gold bands, studded with diamonds, for her wrists.

"They are lovely," she cried, a smile of pleasure breaking over her face, "and—I really believe it is the very pair that I was admiring in Tiffany's window only a few days ago!"

"I shouldn't wonder—sometimes the fairies whisper maidens' wishes in older ears, eh?" Mr. Dinsmore archly returned, and glad to see the gloom fading from her face.

"The fairies are great tell-tales then, for you are continually anticipating my wishes," Mona replied. "But," she added, glancing at the clock, "I have some little things to attend to before going out this evening, and I must be about them. A thousand thanks for my diamonds," and she kissed him softly as she said it, "and I shall surely wear them to-night."

"And here is your mirror," he said, taking the box containing it from the drawer of his desk. "Remember your promise, dear, never to part with it."

"It shall never go out of my possession," she gravely replied, as she took it, and then quietly left the room.

She was very grave as she went slowly up stairs, and once or twice a long, sobbing sigh escaped her.

"Oh, why did such a thought ever come to me?" she murmured. "It is too dreadful, and I will not harbor it for a moment. He is good and noble—his whole life has been grand and above reproach, and I love him with all my heart."

That evening, about seven o'clock, Mona Montague went down to the elegant drawing-room of her uncle's residence, exquisitely clad for the opera.

Her dress was a fine black lace, of a delicate and beautiful pattern, made over old gold silk, with the corsage cut low and sleeveless, thus leaving her neck and arms to gleam like alabaster through the meshes of delicate lace. The heavy edging at the throat was just caught together with a shell of Etruscan gold, studded with diamonds. Costly solitaires gleamed in her ears, while her dainty wrists were encircled with Mr. Dinsmore's gift of the morning. Upon her head she wore a jaunty hat of black lace, surrounded by a wreath of old gold crushed roses, that contrasted beautifully with her clear, fair skin and dark eyes. Her face was bright with anticipation, her cheeks were slightly flushed, and she was a vision of loveliness to gladden the heart of any beauty-loving man.

"I have come down to receive your verdict, Uncle Walter," she remarked, smiling, and sweeping him a graceful courtesy, as he threw down his paper and arose to meet her, "Will I do?"

His face lighted with love and pride as he ran his eye over her.

"Really, Mona," he said, "you make me almost wish that I were going to see 'Il Trovatore' with you in Ray Palmer's place. You are a very queen of beauty to-night."

Mona flushed as he uttered Ray Palmer's name, but she put up her lips to kiss him for his compliment, and at that moment the young man himself was announced.

His eyes lighted with admiration, as he approached to salute the beautiful girl, and a thrill of delight ran through him as he clasped the hand she so cordially extended.

He was several inches taller than Mona, and a young man of singularly noble bearing, and perhaps twenty-three years of age.

Dignity of character and sincerity of purpose were stamped upon every feature of his intelligent face, and gleamed from his frank, genial eyes, which met yours with a directness that won the heart and confidence at once, while his manner and bearing as well as every detail of his dress, betrayed the thorough gentleman.

Mr. Dinsmore smiled complacently as he marked the exchange of greetings between the two young people. He saw that Mona was deeply interested in her handsome escort, as her deepening color and drooping eyes plainly betrayed.

He followed them to the door, and wished them a genial good-night, after which he went back to his library, saying to himself:

"I could wish nothing better for her. If I can but see her safely settled in life, I should have little to fear for the future, in spite of the miserable past. Young Palmer is a fine fellow, and I will favor his suit with all my heart. Then, with my will signed and sealed, my mind will be at rest."

Alas! alas! "Man proposes and God disposes."

CHAPTER V.

MONA'S APPALLING DISCOVERY.

Mona Montague was very happy throughout that memorable evening as she sat beside Ray Palmer, and listened to the opera of "Il Trovatore."

The four young people occupied a proscenium box, and made a very interesting group. Many a glass was turned upon them, many an eye studied their bright, animated faces, and found the sight almost as entertaining as the scene being enacted upon the stage.

To Ray Palmer's partial eye the fair girl beside him was the most beautiful object in the world, for he loved her with all his heart, and he made up his mind to win her if it were possible.

When the opera was over, the quartet repaired to a fashionable café, where they had a delicious little supper, and spent another happy half-hour discussing the merits of "Il Trovatore"; then they separated to go to their homes.

"You have given me great pleasure this evening, Miss Montague," Ray
Palmer remarked, as he lingered for a moment beside her at the door of
Mr. Dinsmore's residence, and loath to bid her good-night.

"Then I am sure the pleasure has been mutual, Mr. Palmer, for I have enjoyed myself exceedingly," Mona replied, as she lifted her flushed and smiling face to him.

"You are very kind to give me that assurance," he returned, "and you embolden me to crave another favor. May I have your permission to call upon you occasionally?"

"I am only very happy to grant it; pray consider yourself welcome at any time," Mona answered, cordially, but dropping her eyes beneath his earnest look.

"Thank you; I shall gladly avail myself of your kindness," the young man gratefully responded; and then, with a lingering clasp of the hand, he bade her good-night and ran lightly down the steps.

With a rapidly beating heart and throbbing pulses, Mona softly let herself in with a latch-key, turned out the hall gas, which had been left burning dimly for her, and started to mount the stairs, when she espied a gleam of light shining beneath the library door.

"Why! Uncle Walter has not gone to bed yet! Can it be that he is sitting up for me?" she murmured. "I will go and tell him that I have come in, and get my good-night kiss."

She turned back and went quietly down the hall, and tapped lightly at the door. Receiving no response, she opened it, and passed into the room.

The gas was burning brightly, and Mr. Dinsmore was sitting before his desk, but reclining in his chair, his head thrown back against the soft, bright head-rest, the work of Mona's skillful fingers.

"He has fallen asleep," said the fair girl, as she went to his side and laid her hand gently upon his shoulder.

"Uncle Walter," she called, "why did you sit up for me? Wake up now and go to bed, or you will be having one of your dreadful headaches to-morrow."

But the man did not make or show any signs of having heard her.

He was breathing heavily, and Mona now noticed that his face was unnaturally flushed, and that the veins upon his temples were knotted and swollen.

A startled look swept over her face, and she grew white with a sudden fear.

"Uncle Walter!" she cried out, sharply, and trying to arouse him; "speak to me! Oh! there is something dreadful the matter with him; he is ill—he is unconscious!"

With a wild cry and sob of fear and anguish, she turned and sped with flying feet from the room.

A moment later she was knocking vigorously at the door of the serving-man's room, begging him to "get up at once and go for Doctor Hammond, for Mr. Dinsmore was very ill."

Having aroused James, she called the other servants, and then flew back to her idolized uncle.

There was no change in him; he sat and breathed just the same. Instinctively feeling that something ought to be done immediately for his relief, with trembling fingers she loosened his neck-tie, unbuttoned his collar, then drenching her handkerchief with water from an ice pitcher, she began to bathe his flushed and knotted forehead.

She imagined that this afforded him some relief, and that his breathing was not quite so labored, but his condition drove her nearly frantic with fear and anxiety.

James was very expeditious in his movements, and in less than half an hour returned with the family physician.

"Oh, Doctor Hammond, what is the matter with him?" Mona cried, with a sinking heart, as she saw the grave expression that settled over the doctor's face the moment he reached his patient's side.

"An apoplectic attack," he replied, thinking it best that she should know the truth, and so be somewhat prepared for what he feared must soon come.

The unconscious man was borne to his chamber, and everything which human skill could devise was done for him. He rallied somewhat toward morning, but Doctor Hammond gave them no hope that he would ever be any better, or even retain his consciousness for any length of time.

The whole of his right side was helpless, and his tongue was also paralyzed, so that he was entirely speechless.

His efforts to talk were agonizing to witness, for he appeared to realize that his hours were numbered, and seemed to have something special on his mind that he wished to make those around him understand.

Mona alone, who never left his side, seemed able to interpret something of his meaning, and she asked him question after question trying to learn his desire; but he could only slowly move his head to signify that she did not yet understand.

"Oh, what shall I do?" she moaned, in despair; then a bright thought flashed upon her. "Is there some one whom you wish to see, Uncle Walter?" she asked.

His eyes lighted, and a faint nod of the head told her that she had got hold of the right thread at last.

"Who is it?" she said, eagerly; then remembering his helplessness, she added: "I will say over the letters of the alphabet, and when I reach the right one you must press my hand."

This method proved more successful, and Mona finally spelled out the name of Graves.

"Graves—Graves," she repeated, with a puzzled look; then she cried, her face lighting: "Oh, it is Mr. Graves, your lawyer, whom you want."

Again the sufferer nodded, and weakly pushed her from him with his left hand to show that he wanted her to be quick about summoning the man.

In less than an hour Mr. Graves was in the sick-room, and by signs and questions and Mona's use of the alphabet, he finally comprehended that Mr. Dinsmore wished him to draw up a will for him, leaving everything he had to Mona.

While the lawyer was thus engaged in the library, the invalid tried to make Mona understand that there was something else he wished to tell her, and she spelled out the word "mirror."

"Oh, you want me to remember my promise never to part with it—is that it, Uncle?" she asked.

"No," he signaled, and looked so distressed that the much-tried girl sobbed outright. But she quickly controlled her grief, and finally spelled the word "bring," though her heart almost failed her as she realized that his left hand was fast becoming helpless like the other so that she could scarcely distinguish any pressure when she named a letter.

But she flew to her room and brought the royal mirror to him, and he tried to make her understand that there was something he wished to explain in connection with it.

We who have learned the secret of it, know what he wanted, but he could not even lift his nerveless hand to show her the gilded point beneath which lay the spring that controlled the hidden drawer and its contents.

Mona asked him question after question, but all that she could elicit were sighs, while great tears welled up into the man's eyes and rolled over his cheeks; and when at last a groan of agony burst from him, she could bear it no longer, and went weeping from the room, bearing the ancient relic from his sight.

She remained in her own room a few moments to compose herself before going back to him, and during her absence, Mr. Graves went up to him with the will which he had hastily drafted.

Mr. Dinsmore had had some conversation with him, in a general way, about the matter previous to this, and so he had drawn up the instrument to cover every point that he could think of. He read it aloud, and Mr. Dinsmore signified his satisfaction with it, and yet he looked troubled, as if it did not quite cover all that he desired.

Doctor Hammond and the housekeeper were summoned to act as witnesses; then Mr. Graves placed the pen, filled with ink, within the sick man's fingers, for him to sign the will. But he could not hold it—there was no strength, no power in them.

In vain they clasped them around it, and urged him to "try;" but they instantly fell away, the pen dropped upon the snowy counterpane making a great, unsightly blotch of ink, and they knew that he was past putting his signature, or even his mark, to the will.

As he himself realized this, a shrill cry of despair burst from him, and the next instant he lapsed into unconsciousness from a second stroke.

"The end has come—he will not live an hour," gravely remarked Doctor
Hammond, as his skilled fingers sought the dying man's feeble pulse.

In half that time Walter Dinsmore was dead, and Mona Montague was alone in the world.

We will pass over the next few days, with their mournful incidents and the despairing grief of the beautiful girl, who had been so sadly bereft, to the morning after the funeral ceremonies, when Mr. Graves, with Mr. Dinsmore's unsigned will in his pocket, called to consult with Mona regarding her uncle's affairs and her own plans for the future.

He found her in the library, looking sad and heavy-eyed from almost incessant weeping, her manner languid and drooping.

She was engaged in trying to make up some accounts which the housekeeper had requested her to attend to, hoping thus to distract her mind somewhat from her grief.

She burst into tears as the lawyer kindly took her hand, for the sight of him brought back to her so vividly the harrowing scenes of that last day of her idolized uncle's life.

But she strove to control herself after a moment, and invited the gentleman to be seated, when he immediately broached the subject of his call.

"Perhaps you are aware, Miss Montague," he began, "that Mr. Dinsmore, on the morning of his death, tried to make his will, in which he stated his wish to leave you all his property; but he was unable to sign it; consequently the document cannot stand, according to law. I was somewhat surprised," Mr. Graves continued, looking thoughtful, "at his excessive anxiety and distress regarding the matter, as he had previously given me to understand that you were his only living relative. Still he might only have wished to make assurance doubly sure. Do you know of any heirs beside yourself?"

"No," Mona answered, "he had no relatives as near to him as I. There are,
I believe, one or two distant cousins residing somewhere in the South."

"Then you are of course the sole heir, and will have the whole of his handsome fortune—the will would only have been a matter of form. Mr. Dinsmore was a very rich man, Miss Montague, and I congratulate you upon being the heiress to a large fortune," the lawyer continued, with hearty sincerity in his tone.

But Mona looked, up at him with streaming eyes.

"Oh! but I would rather have my uncle back than all the wealth of the world!" she cried, with quivering lips.

"True. I know that your loss is irreparable—one that no amount of money can make up to you," was the kind and sympathetic response. Then the man returned to business again, "But—do you mind telling me your age, Miss Montague?"

"I was eighteen the day before my uncle died," the stricken girl replied, with a keen heart-pang, as she recalled that eventful day.

"You are very young to have care of so much property," said the lawyer, gravely. "What would be your wish as to the management of it? You ought really to have a guardian for the next few years. If you will designate some one whom you would wish, and could trust to act as such, I will gladly assist in putting Mr. Dinsmore's affair in convenient shape for him."

"You are very good, Mr. Graves," Mona thoughtfully returned. Then she added, wistfully: "Why cannot you act as my guardian? I know of no one in whom I have so much confidence. Uncle Walter trusted you, and surely there can be no one who understands his affairs as well as you do."

The man's face lighted at this evidence of her trust in him.

"Thank you, Miss Mona," he said. "It is of course gratifying to me to know that you desire this, and I really think that Mr. Dinsmore would have suggested such an arrangement had he been able to do so; but of course I felt delicate about proposing it. Walter Dinsmore was a dear and valued friend, as well as my client, and, believe me, I feel a deep interest in you, for his sake, as well as your own. I will accept the trust, and do the best I can for you, my child, thanking you again heartily for your confidence in me."

He spent a long time, after that, talking over business matters and looking over some of Mr. Dinsmore's papers, and when at length he took his leave, Mona was really greatly comforted, and felt that she had found a true friend to rely upon in her loneliness.

CHAPTER VI.

A BOLD AND CUNNING SCHEME.

On the afternoon previous to Mr. Dinsmore's death a woman of perhaps sixty years alighted from an elegant private carriage before the door of a fine residence on West —— street, in New York city.

She was simply but richly clad in heavy, lustrous black silk, and was a woman of fine appearance, although her face wore a look of deep sadness which seemed to indicate some hidden trouble or sorrow.

Her hair was almost white, but carefully arranged, and lay low upon her placid, but slightly wrinkled, brow in soft, silken waves that were very becoming to her. Her complexion was unusually clear and fair for one of her years, although it might have been enhanced somewhat by the fine vail of white tulle which she wore over it. She was tall and commanding in figure, a little inclined toward portliness, but every motion was replete with graceful dignity and high-bred repose.

After giving directions to her coachman to wait for her, she mounted the steps leading to the door, pausing for an instant to read the name, "R. Wesselhoff, M.D." engraved upon a silver plate, before ringing the bell.

A colored servant soon answered her call, and responded affirmatively to her inquiry if the noted physician was in, then ushered her into a small but elegantly appointed reception-room upon the right of the lofty hall.

Five minutes later an elderly and singularly prepossessing man entered and saluted his visitor in a gracious and respectful manner.

"Mrs. Walton, I suppose?" he remarked, just glancing at the card which she had given the servant.

The woman bowed, then observed, with a patient but pathetic sigh:

"I have called, Doctor Wesselhoff, upon a very sad errand, and one which
I trust you will regard as strictly confidential."

"Certainly, madame; I so regard all communications made by my patients," the gentleman courteously responded.

"I have a son," madame resumed, "who has of late betrayed symptoms of the strangest mania, although he appears to be in perfect health in all other respects. He imagines that some gigantic robbery has been committed; sometimes he declares that bonds to a large amount have been stolen, at other times it is money, then again that costly jewels have disappeared; but the strangest phase of his malady consists in the fact that he accuses me, and sometimes other members of the family, of being the thief, and insists that he must have me arrested. This has gone on for some time, and I have been obliged to adopt every kind of device in order to keep him from carrying out his threats and thus creating a very uncomfortable scandal. This morning he became more violent than usual, and I felt obliged to take some decided step in regard to proper treatment for him; therefore my visit to you."

"It is a singular mania, truly," said the physician, who had been listening with the deepest interest to his companion's recital. "I think I never have met with anything exactly like it before in all my experience. How old is your son, Mrs. Walter?"

"Twenty-four years," the woman replied, with a heavy sigh; "and," she added, tremulously, "I cannot bear the thought of sending him to any common lunatic asylum. I learned recently that you sometimes receive private patients to test their cases before sending them to a public institution, and that you have frequently effected a cure in critical cases. Will you take my son and see what you think of his case—what you can do for him? I shall not mind the cost—I wish to spare nothing, and I do not wish any one, at least of our friends and acquaintances, to know that he is under treatment for insanity until you pronounce your verdict. He seems sane enough upon all other topics, except now and then he persists in calling himself by some other name, and I know he would be very sensitive, should he recover, to have his condition known. He does not even suspect that I am contemplating any such thing, and I shall be obliged to use strategy in bringing him to you."

Doctor Wesselhoff was evidently very deeply interested in the case; he had never heard of anything like it before, and all his professional enthusiasm was aroused.

He spent some time questioning his visitor, and finally decided that he would receive the young man immediately—to-morrow afternoon Mrs. Walton might bring him, he said, if she could conveniently arrange to do so.

"I think, perhaps, it will not be best for me to come with him myself," the lady said, after considering the matter for some time. "Truly," she added, with a sad smile, "I almost fear to go out with him, lest he put his threats into execution and have me arrested. But I think I can arrange with my sister, Mrs. Vanderbeck, to persuade him to come with her as if to call upon a friend."

The matter was arranged thus, and madame arose to take her leave, the physician accompanying her to the door and feeling deep sympathy for the cultured and attractive woman in her strange affliction.

The next day, about one o'clock—the day following Mona Montague's attendance at the opera with Ray Palmer, and only a few hours after Mr. Dinsmore's death, a brilliantly beautiful woman, who might have been forty-five years of age, entered the handsome store of Amos Palmer & Co., diamond merchants and jewelers.

She was exquisitely dressed in an expensive, tailor-made costume of gray ladies' cloth, with a gray felt bonnet trimmed with the same shade of velvet as her dress. Her hands were faultlessly gloved, her feet incased in costly imported boots, and everything about her apparel bespoke her a favorite of wealth and luxury.

Her appearance was the more marked from the fact that her hair was a deep, rich red, and curled about her fair forehead in lovely natural curls, while she wore over her face a spotted black lace veil, which, however, did not quite conceal some suspicious wrinkles and "crow's-feet," if that had been her object in wearing it.

She had driven to the store in a plain but elegant coupé, drawn by a pair of black horses in gold-mounted harness. Her driver was apparently a man of about thirty years, and of eminently respectable appearance in his dark-green livery.

She approached a counter on entering the store, and, in a charmingly affable manner, asked to look at some diamonds.

As it happened, at that hour, one of the clerks was absent, and Mr. Amos Palmer was himself in attendance in his place, and politely served the lady, laying out before her a glittering array of the costly stones she desired to examine.

He saw at once that she was a judge of the gems, for she selected not the largest and most showy, but the purest and the best, and he could but admire her discernment and taste.

When she had made her selections, and she took plenty of time about it, chatting all the while with the gentleman in the most intelligent and fascinating manner, she remarked that she wished her husband to see them before she concluded her purchase.

"But," she added, thoughtfully, "he is something of an invalid, and not able to come to the store to examine them; have you not some one whom you could trust, Mr. Palmer, to take the stones to my home for his inspection? If he sanctions my choice he will at once write a check for their price, or the attendant could return them if they were not satisfactory."

"Certainly," Mr. Palmer graciously responded; "we frequently have such requests, and are only too willing to accommodate our customers. Will madame kindly give me her address?"

Madame smiled as she drew a costly card-case from her no less costly shopping-bag, and taking a heavy card with beveled edges from it, laid it upon the counter before the jeweler, remarking that she should like to have the clerk accompany her directly back in her own carriage, as she wanted the matter decided at once, for the diamonds were to be worn that evening if they suited.

"Mrs. William Vanderbeck, No. 98 —— street," Mr. Palmer read, and then slipped the card into his vest pocket, after which he beckoned a clerk to him.

"Ask my son to step this way a moment," he said.

The man bowed respectfully, bestowing an admiring glance upon the attractive woman on the other side of the counter, and then withdrew to a private office at the other end of the room.

A moment later Ray Palmer made his appearance and approached his father.

Mr. Palmer introduced his son to Mrs. Vanderbeck, mentioned her desire that some one be sent to her residence with the diamonds she had selected for her husband's approval, and asked if he would assume the responsibility.

The young man readily consented, for the duty was not an unusual one, and immediately returned to the office for his coat and hat, while his father carefully put up the costly stones in a convenient form for him to take, and chatted socially with the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck meantime.

When they were ready Ray slipped the package into one of the outside pockets of his overcoat, but retained his hold upon it, and then followed the lady from the store to her carriage, and the next moment they drove away.

The young man found his companion a most charming woman. She was bright, witty, cultured and highly educated. She had evidently seen a great deal of the world, and was full of anecdotes, which she knew how to relate with such effect that he forgot for the time everything but the charm of her presence and conversation.

The drive was rather a long one, but Ray did not mind that, and was, on the whole, rather sorry when the carriage stopped, and Mrs. Vanderbeck remarked, in the midst of a witty anecdote:

"Here we are at last—ah—"

This last ejaculation was caused by discovering that she could not rise from her seat, her dress having been shut into the door of the coupé.

Ray bent forward with a polite "allow me," to assist her, but found that he could not disengage the dress.

Just then the coachman opened the door, but in spite of the young man's utmost care, the beautiful cloth was badly torn in the operation.

"What a pity!" he exclaimed, in a rueful tone.

But madame looked up with a silvery laugh.

"Never mind," she said lightly, "accidents will happen, and I ought to have been more careful when I entered the carriage."

Ray stepped out upon the sidewalk, where he stood waiting to assist his companion, who, however, was trying to pin the rent in her skirt together. Then gathering up some packages that were lying on the seat opposite, she laughingly inquired:

"Please may I trouble you with these for a moment?"

"Indeed you may. Pray excuse my negligence," Ray gallantly exclaimed, as he extended his hands for them.

She filled them both, and then gracefully descended to the ground.

"You can wait, James, to take Mr. Palmer back," she quietly remarked, as they turned to mount the steps of the residence before which they had stopped.

"Pray do not ask your man to do that, Mrs. Vanderbeck; I can take a car just as well," the young man exclaimed.

"No, indeed," she returned, with a brilliant smile, "I am sure it would be very uncourteous in me to allow you to do so after your kindness in coming with me."

She rang the bell, and the door was almost immediately opened by a colored servant, when the beautiful woman led the way to a small reception room on the right of the hall, where she invited her companion to be seated, while she went to arrange for the interview with her husband.

She glided gracefully from the room, and Ray, depositing upon the table the packages he held, began to remove his gloves, while he glanced about the elegant apartment, noticing its hangings and decorations and many beautiful pictures.

Presently a gentleman of very prepossessing appearance entered, and Ray, arising, was astonished to behold, instead of the invalid he had pictured to himself, a man in the prime of life and apparently in perfect health.

He bowed politely.

"Mr. Vanderbeck, I presume?" he remarked, inquiringly.

The gentleman smilingly returned his salute, without responding to the name, then courteously asked him to take a seat.

Ray took the proffered chair, and then observed, although he wondered why
Mrs. Vanderbeck did not return:

"As I suppose you know, I have called, at the request of Mrs. Vanderbeck, to have you examine some—Good heavens!"

And he suddenly leaped from his chair as if shot from it by some powerful but concealed spring, his face as pale as his shirt bosom, great drops of cold perspiration breaking out upon his forehead.

He had put his hand in his pocket as he spoke, to take from it the package of diamonds, but—it was gone!

"Pray do not be so excited, my young friend," calmly observed his companion, "but sit down again and tell me your errand."

But Ray Palmer did not hear or heed him. He had rushed to the window, where, with a trembling hand, he swept aside the heavy draperies and looked out upon the street for the coupé in which he had been brought to that house.

It was not in sight, and the fearful truth burst upon him—he had been the victim of an accomplished sharper.

He had been robbed, and the clever thief had suddenly vanished, leaving no trace behind her.

CHAPTER VII.

A DESPERATE SITUATION.

For a moment all Raymond Palmer's strength fled, leaving him almost as helpless as a child, while he gazed wildly up and down the street, vainly searching for the woman who had so cunningly duped him, for he knew, if his suspicions were correct, the firm of Amos Palmer & Co. would lose thousands of dollars by that day's operations.

But the young man was no irresolute character. He knew that he must act, and promptly, if he would regain the treasure he had lost, and this thought soon restored strength and energy to both heart and limb.

"I have been robbed!" he cried hoarsely, as he rushed back to the table and seized his hat and gloves, intent only upon getting out upon the street to trace the clever woman who had so outwitted him. Doctor Wesselhoff was also a victim of the sharpers; for, of course, it will be readily understood that the whole matter was only a deeply laid and cunningly executed scheme to rob the wealthy jewelers of diamonds to a large amount. He was watching Ray's every movement with keenest interest, and with a resolute purpose written upon his intelligent face. He quietly approached him, laid his hand gently upon his arm, and his magnetic power was so strong that Ray was instantly calmed, to a certain extent, in spite of his exceeding dismay at the terrible and unexpected calamity that had overtaken him.

"My young friend," he said soothingly, "you say you have been robbed. Please explain yourself. There is no one in this house who would rob you."

Ray searched the man's face with eager, curious eyes. Then he shook off his hand with an impatient movement.

"Explain myself!" he repeated hotly. "I have had a small fortune stolen from me, and I believe that you are an accomplice in the transaction."

"No, no; I assure you I am not," returned the gentleman gravely, and exactly as he would have addressed a person whom he believed to be perfectly sane. "I was told that a caller wished to see me, and I find a man claiming that he has been robbed in my house. What do you mean? Tell me, and perhaps I can help you in your emergency."

The young man was impressed by his courteous manner, in spite of his suspicions, and striving to curb his excitement, he gave him a brief explanation of what had occurred.

His account tallied so exactly with the statements of his visitor of the previous day that Doctor Wesselhoff became more and more interested in the singular case, and was convinced that his patient was indeed afflicted with a peculiar monomania.

"Who was this woman?" he inquired, to gain time, while he should consider what course to pursue with his patient.

"I do not know—she was an utter stranger to me—never saw her before.
She called herself Mrs. Vanderbeck."

That was the name of the "sister" whom Mrs. Walton had told him she would send with her son, so the celebrated physician had no suspicion of foul play.

"And who are you?" he asked, searching the fine face before him with increasing interest.

"My name is Palmer," Ray answered. "I am the son of Amos Palmer, a jeweler of this city."

Doctor Wesselhoff glanced keenly at him, while he thought that, if he was mad, there was certainly method in his madness to make him deny his own name, and claim to be some one else.

The physician had always been a profound student, he was thoroughly in love with his profession, devoting all his time and energies to it, consequently he was not posted regarding the jewelers of New York, or, indeed, business firms of any kind, fore he did not know Amos Palmer—if indeed there was such a man—from any other dealer in the vanities of the world.

He firmly believed the young man before him to be a monomaniac of an unusual type, although he could plainly see that, naturally, he was a person of no ordinary character and intelligence.

"I regret very much that you should find yourself in such deep trouble," he remarked in his calm, dignified manner, "and if you have been decoyed here in the way you claim, you are certainly the victim of a very clever plot. Perhaps I can help you, however; just come this way with me. I will order my carriage, for of course you must act quickly, and we will try our best to relieve you in this unpleasant predicament."

"Thank you sir; you are very kind to be so interested," returned Ray, beginning to think the man had also been made a tool to further the schemes of the thieves, and wholly unsuspicious that he was being led still farther into the trap laid for his unwary feet. "My first act," he continued, "will be to go to the superintendent of police, and put the matter in his hands."

"Yes, yes—that would be the wisest course to pursue, no doubt. This way, Mr.—Palmer. It will save time if we go directly to the stable," and Doctor Wesselhoff opened a door opposite the one by which Ray had entered, and politely held it for him to pass through.

Ray, wholly unsuspicious, stepped eagerly forward and entered the room beyond, when the door was quickly closed after him, and the sound of a bolt shooting into its socket startled him to a knowledge of the fact that he was a prisoner.

A cry of indignation and dismay burst from him, as it again flashed upon him that his companion of a moment before must be in league with the woman who had decoyed him to that place.

He sprang back to the door, and sternly demanded to be instantly released.

There was no reply—there was not even a movement in the other apartment, and he was suddenly oppressed with the fear that he was in the power of an organized gang of robbers who might be meditating putting him out of the way, and no one would ever be the wiser regarding his fate.

He felt that he had been very heedless, for he did not even know the name of the street he was on. His fascinating companion had so concentrated his attention upon herself that he had paid no heed to locality.

He repeated his demand to be released, beating loudly upon the door to enforce it.

But no notice was taken of him, and a feeling almost of despair began to settle over him.

He glanced about the room he was in, to see if there was any other way of escape, when, to his dismay, he found that the apartment was padded from floor to ceiling, and thus no sound within it could be heard outside.

It was lighted only from above, where strong bars over the glass plainly indicated to him that the place was intended as a prison, although there were ventilators at the top and bottom, which served to keep the air pure.

The place was comfortably, even elegantly, furnished with a bed, a lounge, a table and several chairs. There were a number of fine pictures on the walls, handsome ornaments on the mantel, besides books, papers and magazines on the table.

But Ray could not stop to give more than a passing glance to all this. He was terribly wrought up at finding himself in such a strait, and paced the room from end to end, like a veritable maniac, while he tried to think of some way to escape.

But he began to realize, after a time, that giving way to such excitement would do no good—that it would be far wiser to sit quietly down and try to exercise his wits; but his mind was a perfect chaos, his head ached, his temples throbbed, his nerves tingled in every portion of his body, and to think calmly in such a state was beyond his power.

Suddenly, however, he became conscious of a strange sensation—he felt a peculiar influence creeping over him; it almost seemed as if there was another presence in the room—a power stronger than himself controlling him.

This impression grew upon him so rapidly that he began to look searchingly about the apartment, while his pulses throbbed less heavily, his mind grew more composed, his blood began to cool, and he ceased his excited passings up and down the floor.

All at once, in the wall opposite to him, he espied a hole about the size of a teacup, and through this aperture he caught the gleam of a pair of human eyes, which seemed to be looking him through and through.

Once meeting that gaze, he could not seem to turn away from it, and he began to feel very strangely—to experience a sense of weariness, amounting almost to exhaustion, then a feeling of drowsiness began to steal over him—all antagonism, indignation, and rebellion against the cruel fate that had so suddenly overtaken him appeared to be gradually fading from his mind, and he could only think of how tired he was.

"What can it mean?" he asked himself, and made a violent effort to break away from the unnatural influence.

He believed that those eyes belonged to the man whom he had met in the other room—that having hopelessly ensnared his victim he was now availing himself of a panel in the wall to watch and see how he would bear his imprisonment.

"Who and what are you, sir, and what is the meaning of this barbarous treatment?" he demanded; but somehow the tones of his own voice did not sound quite natural to him. "You are aiding and abetting a foul wrong," he went on, "even if you are not directly concerned in it, and I command you to release me at once."

There came no word of reply, however, to this demand; but those strange, magnetic eyes remained fixed upon him with the same intense, masterful expression.

He tried to meet them defiantly, to resist their influence with all the strength of his own will; but that feeling of excessive weariness only seemed to increase, and, heaving a long sigh, he involuntarily began to retreat step by step before those eyes until he reached the lounge, when he sank upon it, and his head dropped heavily upon the pillow.

The next moment his eyelids began to close, as if pressed down by invisible weights, though he was still vaguely conscious of the gaze of those wonderful orbs gleaming at him through the hole in the wall.

But even this faded out of his consciousness after another moment, and a profound slumber locked all his senses. Ray Palmer was hypnotized and a helpless prisoner in the hands of one of the most powerful mesmerists of the world.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE HEIRESS BECOMES A SEAMSTRESS.

Poor Mona Montague was almost heartbroken over the sudden death of her uncle. She could not be reconciled to her great loss, and grieved so bitterly and continuously that her health began to be affected, and she lost all her lovely color and became thin and weak.

With the exception of the housekeeper and servants, Mr. Dinsmore had been her sole companion for many years, and they had been all in all to each other, so that this loss was a terrible blow to her.

Mona had always been an especially bright child unusually mature for her years, and probably her natural precociousness had been increased by having had so much of the companionship of her uncle. He had always interested himself in all her pleasures and made a confidante of her in all things which he thought she could comprehend; so in this way she had become very thoughtful for others, while it had also served to establish a very tender comradeship between them.

He had gratified her every wish whenever he could consistently do so, and had taken care that she should have the best of advantages and the most competent teachers. His home, also, had been filled with everything entertaining and instructive, and thus to her it had been rendered the dearest and happiest place in the world.

But the charm and center of attraction were gone, now that he had been laid away, and, though she believed that his death had left her independently rich, the knowledge gave her no pleasure—in fact, she scarcely gave the subject a thought, except when it was forced upon her.

A fortnight had elapsed since Mr. Dinsmore died, and everything had moved on as usual in his elegant home, while Mrs. Marston, the housekeeper, strove in every way to comfort Mona and to keep her mind occupied so that her thoughts would not long dwell upon her bereavement.

But the young girl's condition troubled her greatly. She was listless and languid; she lost her appetite, and had seasons of depression and outbursts of sorrow that were really alarming.

Susie Leades came to her almost every day and tried to cheer her. Mona appreciated her kind efforts, and was somewhat comforted by them, while she also had many letters of sympathy and condolence from her numerous friends.

But to her great surprise Ray Palmer had never once come to inquire for her; neither had he written her one word to tell her that he felt for her in this bitter trial.

She was both grieved and hurt over his apparent indifference, especially after the request he had made on the evening of their attendance at the opera, and the many unmistakable signs of regard which he had betrayed for her at that time.

She was brooding over this one afternoon when Mr. Graves, the lawyer and her future guardian, was announced.

He looked serious and troubled; indeed, he was so unlike himself that
Mona observed it, and asked him if he was ill.

"No, Miss Mona, I am not really ill, but I am laboring under trouble and anxiety enough to almost make me so," he responded, as he took her extended hand and gazed down upon her own colorless face with a sorrowful, wistful look.

"Trouble?" she repeated, with a quivering lip. "Oh, trouble is so much harder to bear than illness."

"My poor child, your remark only makes my burden all the heavier," the gentleman returned, in an unsteady voice. "Alas, my trouble is all on your account, for I am the bearer of ill news for you."

"Ill news—to me?" exclaimed the young girl, in a wondering tone. "After losing Uncle Walter, it does not seem as if any trouble could move me; nothing can compare with that," she concluded, passionately.

"Very true; but there are other troubles in life besides death," said Mr.
Graves, gently; "such as—the loss of fortune, poverty—"

"Do you mean that I am to have no fortune—that I am to be poor?" exclaimed Mona, astonished.

"Ah, I fear that it is so."

"How can that be possible? Uncle Walter was very rich, wasn't he? I certainly understood you to say so."

"Yes, I did; and I find, on looking into his affairs, that he was worth even more than I had previously supposed."

"Well, then, what can you mean? I am his only near relative, and you said that I should inherit everything," Mona said with a perplexed look.

"I know I did, and I thought so at that time; but, Mona, I was waited upon by a noted lawyer only a few days ago, and he claims the whole of your uncle's great wealth for another."

"Why, who can it possibly be?" cried the girl in amazement.

"Your uncle's wife, or, I should say, his widow."

"My uncle's wife?" repeated Mona, with a dazed look "Uncle Walter had no wife!"

"Are you sure?"

"Why, yes, of course. I have always lived with him, ever since I can remember, and there has been no one else in the family except the servants and the housekeeper. I am sure—I think—and yet—"

Mona abruptly paused as she remembered a remark which her uncle had made to her on her eighteenth birthday. He had said: "You have taken the place of the little girl who never lived to call me father, and—you have helped me to bear other troubles also."

Could it be possible, she now asked herself, that her uncle had had domestic troubles, that there had been a separation from his wife, and that this had been a life-long sorrow to him?

She had always supposed that his wife was dead, for he would never speak of her, nor allow Mona to ask him any questions. From her earliest childhood she had somehow seemed to know that she must not refer in any way to such a subject.

"Ah, I see that you are in some doubt about it," Mr. Graves observed. "The matter stands thus, however: A woman, claiming to be Mrs. Walter Dinsmore, has presented her claim to her husband's property. She proves herself, beyond the possibility of doubt, to be what she pretends, bringing her marriage certificate and other papers to substantiate her title. She asserts that about a year after her marriage with Mr. Dinsmore they had trouble—of what nature I do not know—and the feeling between them was so irreconcilable they agreed to part, Mr. Dinsmore allowing her a separate maintenance. They were living in San Francisco at the time. There was no divorce, but they never met afterward, Mr. Dinsmore coming East, while she remained in California. She says there was a child—"

"Yes," Mona interposed. "Uncle Walter told me of the birth of a little girl, but that she never lived to call him father."

"I wonder what he meant by that?" said Mr. Graves with a start; "that the child came into the world lifeless? If such was the case, then your claim to the estate is still good."

"I supposed from what he said that it was born lifeless; still his words were somewhat ambiguous—even if she had lived several months, she might not have lived long enough to call him father!"

"Well, the woman asserts that the infant lived for a few hours, and brings the records to prove it, and claims that she is Mr. Dinsmore's only legitimate heir, through her child," Mr. Graves explained.

"And is she?—is that true?" Mona asked.

"Yes, the court will recognize her claim—to all appearance, it is indisputable; and now I can understand what puzzled and troubled me when Mr. Dinsmore was so helplessly ill," Mr. Graves said, reflectively. "You doubtless remember how distressed he was when he tried to make me understand something in connection with his will."

"Yes," said Mona with streaming eyes. "Oh, poor Uncle Walter!"

"Doubtless he knew that his wife was still living," Mr. Graves resumed, "and that she would be likely to claim his property. He wanted you to have it—that I know—and he must have suffered untold anguish because he could not make me understand that he wanted to have me insert something in his will, which would provide against this woman's demands. Even if he had been able to sign the document which I drew up, she could have broken it, because she was not mentioned and remembered in it, and he knew this, of course."

"Then she will have all—I am not to have anything?" said Mona inquiringly, but without being able to realize, in the least, what such utter destitution meant.

"My poor child, she utterly refuses to release a dollar of your uncle's money to you. I have fought hard for you, Mona, for I could not bear to come to you with this wretched story; but she is inexorable. She seems, for some reason, to entertain a special spite—even hatred—against you, and asserts, through her counsel—I have not had the honor of meeting this peculiar specimen of womanhood—that you shall either work or beg for your bread; you shall have nothing of what legally belongs to her."

"Then I am absolutely penniless!" said Mona, musingly. "I wonder if I can make myself understand what that means! I have always had everything that I wanted. I never asked for anything that Uncle Walter did not give me if he could obtain it. I have had more money than I wanted to spend, and so I have given a great deal away. It will seem very strange to have an empty purse. I wonder where I shall get my clothes, when what I have are worn out. I wonder how I am to get what I shall need to eat—does it cost very much to feed one person? Why, Mr. Graves!" putting her hand to her head in a half-dazed way. "I cannot make it seem real—it is like some dreadful dream!"

"Mona, my dear child, do not talk like that," said the man, looking deeply distressed, "for, somehow, I feel guilty, as if I were, in a measure, responsible for this fresh calamity that has befallen you; and yet I could not help it. If I had only known that Mr. Dinsmore's wife was living, I could have made the will all right. Ah! no, no! what am I saying? Even if I had, he could not have signed it, for his strength failed. Still, I know that he wanted you to have all, and it is not right that this woman should get it from you."

"Must I go away from my home and from all these lovely things of which Uncle Walter was so fond?" Mona asked, looking about the beautiful room with inexpressible longing written on her young face. "Will she claim his books and pictures, and even this dear chair, in which I loved to see him sit, and which seems almost like a part of himself, now that he is gone?" and unable to bear the thought of parting from these familiar objects, around which clustered such precious associations, the stricken girl bowed her face upon the arm of Mr. Dinsmore's chair, and burst into a passion of tears.

"My dear girl, don't!" pleaded the tender-hearted lawyer, as he gently stroked her rich, brown hair with one hand, and wiped the tears from his own eyes with the other, "it almost breaks my heart to think of it, and I promise that you shall at least have some of the treasures which you prize so much. You shall not want for a home, either—you shall come to me. Mr. Dinsmore was my dear and valued friend, and for his sake, as well as your own, you shall never want for enough to supply your needs. I have not great wealth, but what I have I will share with you."

Mona now lifted her head, and wiped her tears, while she struggled bravely to regain her self-possession.

"You are very kind, Mr. Graves," she said, when she could speak, and with a newly acquired dignity, at which her companion marveled, "and I am very grateful to you for your sympathy and generosity; but I could never become an object of charity to any one. If it is so ordered, that I am to be bereft of the home and fortune which Uncle Walter wished me to have, I must submit to it, and there will doubtless be some way provided to enable me to live independently. It is all so new and so—so almost incomprehensible, that, for the moment, I was overcome. I will try not to be so weak and childish again; and now," pausing for a deep breath, "will you please explain to me just my position? When must I go, and—and can I take away the things that Uncle Walter has given to me from time to time? The pictures in my own rooms were given to me on certain birthdays and holidays; the piano he gave me new last Christmas, and I have a watch and some valuable jewelry."

"Of course, you may keep all such things," Mr. Graves answered with emotion, for it was inexpressively sad to have this girl so shorn of all that had made life beautiful to her so many years, "unless," he added, "it be the piano, and that you may have if there is any way to prove that it was given to you. You are to have a week in which to make your arrangements, and at the end of that time everything will pass into the possession of madame."

"Only a week longer in my dear home!" broke from the quivering lips of the stricken girl; "how can I bear it? Oh, Uncle Walter! how can I bear to have strangers handle with careless touch the things that you and I have loved so much? these dear books that we have read together—the pictures that we selected and never tired of studying to find new points for each other! Oh, every one is sacred to me!"

The strong man at her side was so moved by her grief that he was obliged to rise and walk to a window to conceal his own emotion.

But after a little she controlled herself again, and discussed everything with him in a grave, quiet, yet comprehensive way that made him sure she would in time rise above her troubles and perhaps become all the stronger in character for having been thus tried in the furnace of affliction.

He went every day after that to assist her in her arrangements for leaving; helped her to pack the treasures she was to take away with her, and to put in the nicest order everything she was to leave; for on this point she was very particular. She had secretly resolved that her uncle's discarded wife should have no fault to find with his home.

When the end of the week arrived Mr. Graves tried to persuade Mona to go home with him and remain until she could decide what she wished to do in the future, or, he told her, she was welcome to remain and make it her home indefinitely.

But she quietly thanked and informed him that she had already arranged to go as seamstress to a lady on West Forty-ninth street.

"You go as a seamstress?" exclaimed the lawyer, aghast. "What do you know about sewing—you who have always had everything of the kind done for you?"

"Oh, no; not everything," said Mona, smiling slightly. "I have always loved to sew since I was a little child, and my nurse made me do patchwork; and I assure you that I am quite an expert with my needle in many ways."

"But to go out and make it a business! I cannot bear the thought! What would your uncle say?" objected good Mr. Graves.

"I do not believe that Uncle Walter would wish me to be dependent upon any one, if it was possible for me to take care of myself," Mona gravely replied. "At all events," she continued, with a proud uplifting of her pretty brown head, "I could never allow another to provide for my needs without first trying my best to earn my own living—though, believe me, I am very grateful for your kindness."

"You are a brave and noble girl, Mona, and I admire your spirit; but—I have no daughter of my own, and, truly, both my wife and I would be glad to have you come to us," Mr. Graves urged, regarding her anxiously.

"Thank you; it is very comforting to know that you are so kindly disposed toward me, but I know that I shall respect myself more if I try to do something for my own support," was the firm yet gentle response.

Mr. Graves sighed, for he well knew that this delicately reared girl had a hard lot before her if she expected to earn her living as a sewing girl.

"At least you will regard me as your stanch friend," he said, "and promise me, Mona, that if you ever get into any difficulty you will appeal to me; that if you should find that you have undertaken more than your strength will allow you to carry out you will make my home your refuge."

"Yes, I will," she said, tears of gratitude starting to her lovely eyes, "and I am greatly comforted to know that I have one such true friend in my trouble."

"What is the name of the family into which you are going?" her companion inquired.

"I do not know, and it is a little singular that I do not," Mona replied, smiling. "I applied at an employment bureau for a situation a few days ago; yesterday I went to ascertain if there was a place for me and was told that a lady living on West Forty-ninth street wanted a seamstress, and I am to meet her at the office this afternoon. I, of course, asked the name, but the clerk could not tell me—she had lost the lady's card, and could only remember the street and number."

"Rather a careless way of doing business," the lawyer remarked, as he arose to go. "However," he added, "let me know how you succeed after you get settled, and if anything should occur to throw you out of your place, come straight to us, and make our home headquarters while you are looking out for another."

Mona's self-possession almost forsook her as she took leave of him. It seemed almost like losing her only friend, to let him go; but she bade him good-by with as brave a front as possible, though she broke down utterly the moment the door closed after him.

The remainder of the day was spent in packing her trunk and looking her last upon the familiar objects of the home that had always been so dear to her.

But her severest trial came when she had to bid the housekeeper and the servants farewell, for the loved and loving girl had been a great favorite with them all, and their grief was as deep and sincere at parting with her.

This over, she stepped across the threshold of Walter Dinsmore's elegant home for the last time, and entered the carriage that was to bear her away, her heart nearly bursting with grief, and tears streaming in torrents over her cheeks.

CHAPTER IX.

MONA RECEIVES A SHOCK.

When Mona arrived at the office of the employment bureau, at the hour appointed, she found awaiting her the carriage belonging to the woman who had engaged her services.

A pretty serving girl admitted her when she arrived at the elegant brown stone mansion, and remarked, as she showed her up to the room she was to occupy, that "the mistress had been called out of town for the day, and would not be at home until dinner time."

The girl seemed kindly disposed, and chatted socially about the family, which consisted only of "the mistress and her nephew, Master Louis." The mistress was a widow, but very gay—very much of a society lady, and "handsome as a picture," She was upward of forty, but didn't look a day over thirty. She was very proud and high spirited, but treated her help kindly if they didn't cross her.

Somehow Mona did not get a very favorable impression of her employer from this gossipy information; but her fate was fixed for the present, and she resolved to do the best that she could, and not worry regarding the result.

As the girl was about to leave the room to go about her duties, she remarked that dinner would be served at six o'clock, and that Mona was to come down to the basement to eat with the other servants.

Mona flushed hotly at this information. Must she, who all her life had been the petted child of fortune, go among menials to eat with she knew not whom?

But she soon conquered her momentary indignation, for she realized that she was nothing more than a servant herself now, and could not expect to be treated as an equal by her fashionable employer.

"Will you tell me your name, please?" she asked of the girl, and trying not to betray any of her sensitiveness.

"Mary, miss," was the respectful reply, for the girl recognized that the new seamstress was a lady, in spite of the fact that she was obliged to work for her living.

"Thank you; and—will you please tell me the name of your mistress, also; the card which she left at the office was lost, and I have not learned it," Mona said as she arose to hang her wraps in the closet.

"Lor', miss! that is queer," said the girl in a tone of surprise, "that you should engage yourself and not know who to."

"It didn't really make much difference what the name was—it was the situation that I wanted," Mona remarked, smiling.

"True enough, but my lady's name's a high-sounding one, and she's not at all backward about airing it; it rolls off her sweet tongue as easy as water off a duck's back—Mrs. Richmond Montague," and the girl tossed her head and drew herself up in imitation of her mistress's haughty air in a way that would have done credit to a professional actress, "But there," she cried, with a start, as a shrill voice sounded from below, "cook is calling me, and I must run."

She tripped away, humming a gay tune, while Mona sank, white and trembling, upon the nearest chair.

"Mrs. Richmond Montague!" she repeated, in a scarcely audible voice. "Can it be possible that she—this woman, to whom I have come as a seamstress—is my father's second wife—or was, since she is a widow! How strange! how very strange that I, of all persons, should have been fated to come here! It is very unfortunate that I could not have known her name, for, of course, I should never have come if I had. It may be," she went on, musingly, "that she is some other Mrs. Montague; but no—it could hardly be possible that there are two persons with that peculiar combination of names. This, then, is the woman for whom my father deserted my mother in order to secure the fortune left by his aunt! How unworthy!—how contemptible! I am glad that I fell to Uncle Walter's care; I am glad that I never knew him—this unnatural father who never betrayed the slightest interest in his own child. But—can I stay here with her?" she asked, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes. "Can I—his daughter—remain to serve the woman who usurped my mother's place, who is living in affluence upon money which rightly belongs to me?"

The young girl was trembling with nervous excitement, and a feeling of hot anger, a sense of deep injustice burned within her.

This startling discovery—for she was convinced that there could be but one Mrs. Richmond Montague—stirred her soul to its lowest depths. She felt a strange dread of this woman; a feeling almost of horror and aversion made her sink from contact with her; and yet, at the same time, she experienced an unaccountable curiosity to see and know something of her. There was a spice of romance about the situation which prompted her, in spite of her first impulse to flee from the house—to stay and study this gay woman of the world, who was so strangely connected with her own life.

She could leave at any time, she told herself, should the position prove to be an uncongenial one; but since she had chosen the vocation of a seamstress, she might as well sew for Mrs. Richmond Montague as any one else; while possibly she might be able to learn something more regarding her mother's history than she already knew. She felt sure that her uncle had kept something back from her, and she so longed to have the mystery fully explained.

But, of course, if she remained, it would never do for her to give her own name, for this woman would suspect her identity at once, and probably drive her out into the world again. It was not probable that she would knowingly tolerate the child of a rival in her home.

Mona was glad now that she had not told Mary her name, as she had once been on the point of doing.

"What shall I call myself?" she mused. "I do not dare to use Uncle Walter's name, for that would betray me as readily as my own; even Mona, being such an uncommon name, would also make her suspect me. There is my middle name, Ruth, and my father was called Richmond—suppose I call myself Ruth Richards?"

This rather pleased her, and she decided to use it. But she was strangely nervous about meeting Mrs. Montague, and several times she was tempted to send Mary for a carriage and flee to Mr. Graves's hospitable home, and start out from there to seek some other position.

Once she did rise to call her. "I cannot stay," she said. "I must go."
But just then she heard voices in the hall below, and, believing that
Mrs. Montague had returned, she turned back and sat down again with
a sinking heart, assured that her resolve had come too late.

At six o'clock she went down to the basement, where she had been told dinner would be served, and where she found no one save Mary and Sarah, the cook, who proved to be a good-natured woman of about thirty-five years, and who at once manifested a motherly interest in the pretty and youthful seamstress.

Mary informed her, during the meal, that Mrs. Montague was going out that evening to a grand reception, and had sent word that she could not see her until the next morning; but that she would find some sheets and pillow slips in the sewing room, which she could begin to work upon after breakfast, and she would lay out other work for her later.

Mona uttered a sigh of relief over the knowledge that the meeting, which she so much dreaded, was to be postponed a little, and after dinner she returned to her room, and sat down quite composedly to read the morning paper, which she had purchased on her way to Mrs. Montague's.

While thus engaged, her eye fell upon the following paragraph:

"No clew has as yet been obtained to the mysterious Palmer affair, although both the police and detectives are doing their utmost to trace the clever thief. It is most earnestly hoped that they will succeed in their efforts, as such successful knavery is an incentive to even greater crimes."

"What can it mean?" Mona said to herself; "and what a blind paragraph! Of course, it refers to something that has been previously published, and which might explain it. Can it be that Mr. Palmer's jewelry store has been robbed?"

This, of course, led her thoughts to Ray Palmer, and she fell into troubled musings regarding his apparent neglect of her, and in the midst of this there came a rap upon her door.

She arose to open it, and found Mary standing outside.

"Please, Miss Richards, will you come down to Mrs. Montague's room?" she asked. "She has ripped the lace flounce from her reception dress while putting it on, and wants you to repair it for her."

Mona was somewhat excited by this summons; but, unlocking her trunk, she found her thimble, needles, and scissors, and followed Mary down stairs to the second floor and into a large room over the drawing-room.

It was a beautiful room, most luxuriously and tastefully fitted up as a lady's boudoir, and was all ablaze with light from a dozen gas jets.

In the center of the floor there stood a magnificently beautiful woman.

She was a blonde of the purest type, and Mona thought that Mary had made a true statement when she had said that, though she was upward of forty, she did not look a day over thirty, for she certainly was a very youthful person in appearance.

Her skin was almost as fair as marble, with a flush on her round, velvet-like cheeks that came and went as in the face of a young girl. Her features were of Grecian type, her hair was a pale gold and arranged in a way to give her a regal air; her eyes were a beautiful blue, her lips a vivid scarlet, while her form was tall and slender, with perfect ease and grace in every movement.

"How lovely she is!" thought Mona. "It does not seem possible that she could have even an unkind thought in her heart. I can hardly believe that she ever knew anything of my poor mother's wrongs."

Mrs. Montague was exquisitely dressed in a heavy silk of a delicate peach ground, brocaded richly with flowers of a deeper shade. This was draped over a plain peach-colored satin petticoat, and trimmed with a deep flounce of finest point lace. The corsage was cut low, thus revealing her beautiful neck, around which there was clasped a necklace of blazing diamonds.

Her arms were bare to the shoulder, the dress having no sleeves save a strap about two inches wide, into which a frill of costly point was gathered. Long gloves of a delicate peach tint came above her elbow, and between the top of each of these and the frill of lace there was a diamond armlet to match the necklace.

Magnificent solitaires gleamed in her ears, and there was a star composed of the same precious stones among the massive braids of her golden hair.

She was certainly a radiant vision, and Mona's quick glance took in every detail of her dress while she was crossing the room to her side.

Mrs. Montague bent a keen look upon her as she approached, and she gave a slight start as her eyes swept the delicately chiseled face of the girl.

"You are the new seamstress, Mary tells me. What is your name—what shall
I call you?" she questioned, abruptly.

"M—" Mona had almost betrayed herself before she remembered the need of concealing her identity.

But quickly checking herself, she cried:

"Ruth Richards, madame; call me Ruth, if you please."

"Hum! Ruth Richards—that's rather pretty," remarked the lady, but still searching the fair face before her with a look of curious interest. "But," she added, "you look very young; I am afraid you are hardly experienced enough to be a very efficient seamstress," and the lady told herself that those delicate, rose-tipped fingers did not look as if they had been long accustomed to the use of a needle.

"I do not understand very much about dressmaking," Mona frankly replied, although she ignored the reference to her youthfulness; "but I can do plain sewing very nicely, and, indeed, almost anything that is planned for me. I distinctly stated at the office that I could neither cut nor fit."

"Well, I can but give you a trial," with a little sigh of disappointment, as if she regretted having engaged one so young; "and if you cannot fill the place, I shall have to try again, I suppose. But, see here! I caught the thread that fastened this lace to my skirt, and have ripped off nearly half a yard. I want you to replace it for me, and you must do it quickly, for I am a little late, as it is."

Mona dropped upon her knees beside the beautiful woman, threaded her needle with the silk which Mary brought her, and, though her fingers trembled and her heart beat with rapid, nervous throbs, she quickly repaired the damage, and in a manner to win commendation from Mrs. Montague.

"You are very quick with your needle, and you have done it very nicely," she said, with a smile that revealed two rows of the most perfect teeth that Mona had ever seen. "And now tell me," she added, as she turned slowly around, "if everything about my costume is all right, then you may go."

"Yes," Mona returned; "it is perfect; it fits and hangs beautifully."

"That is the highest praise any one could give," Mrs. Montague responded, with another brilliant smile; "and I believe you are really a competent judge, since your own dress hasn't a wrinkle in it. Did you make it yourself?"

"I—I helped to make it. I told you I do not know how to fit," Mona answered, with a quick flush, and almost a feeling of guilt, for she had really done but very little work upon the simple black robe which had been made since her uncle's death.

"Well, I shall soon find out how much you do know," said the lady in a business-like tone. "You can begin upon those sheets and pillow slips to-morrow morning—Mary has told you, I suppose. That will be plain sewing, and you can manage it well enough by yourself. Now you may go," and the elegant woman turned to her dressing-case, gathered up an exquisite point-lace fan and handkerchief, while Mona stole softly out of the room and up to her own, where, no longer able to control the nervous excitement under which she was laboring, she wept herself to sleep.

The poor grief-stricken girl felt very desolate on this, her first night beneath a strange roof, and realized, as she had not before, that she was utterly alone in the world, and dependent upon the labor of her own hands for her future support.

Aside from the grief which she experienced in losing her uncle and the lovely home which for so many years had been hers, she was both wounded and mortified because of Ray Palmer's apparent indifference.

She could not understand it, for he had always seemed so innately good and noble that it was but natural she should expect some evidence of sympathy from him.

He had been so marked in his attentions to her during that evening at the opera, he had appeared so eager for her permission to call, and had implied, by both words and manner, that he found his greatest pleasure in her society, she felt she had a right to expect some condolence from him.

She had begun to believe—to hope that he entertained a more tender sentiment than that of mere friendship for her, and she had become conscious that love for him—and the strongest passion of her nature—had taken deep root in her own heart.

How kind he had been to her that night—how thoughtful! anticipating her every wish! How his glance and even the tones of his voice had softened and grown tender whenever their eyes had met, or he had spoken to her!

What, then, could be the meaning of his recent neglect? Could it be possible that it had been occasioned by the loss of her wealth?—that it had been simply the heiress of the wealthy Mr. Dinsmore in whom he had been interested, and now, having lost all, his regard for her had ceased?

It was a bitter thought, but she could assign no other reason for his strange silence and absence during her sorrow.

Must she resign all the sweet hopes that had begun to take form in her heart?—all the bright anticipations in which he had borne so conspicuous a part?

Must she lose faith in one who had appeared to be so manly, so noble, and so high-minded?

It certainly seemed so, and thus the future looked all the darker before her, for, humiliating as it was to confess it, she knew that Ray Palmer was all the world to her; that life without him would be almost like a body without a soul, a world without a sun.

Her uncle's death had come upon her so like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, almost benumbing all her faculties with the grief it had hurled upon her so remorselessly, that she could think of nothing else until Mr. Graves had come to her with that other fatal piece of news—the loss of her fortune.

She had scarcely looked into a daily paper until that evening, for she felt no interest in the outside world; she could apply her mind to nothing but her own afflictions; consequently, she had not known anything of the mysterious and exciting circumstances connected with Ray Palmer's sudden disappearance and the stolen diamonds. That little blind paragraph, which she had seen just before she was called down to Mrs. Montague's room, was the only hint that she had had of any trouble or loss in the Palmer family.

So, of course, it is not strange that she so misjudged Ray; she could not know that only a great wrong kept him from speeding to her side to express the deepest interest and sympathy for her in her sorrow.

And it was well, perhaps, that she did not know, for it would only have added to her troubles and caused her greater suffering.

CHAPTER X.

MONA MEETS MRS. MONTAGUE'S NEPHEW.

The next morning, as soon as she had finished her breakfast, Mona asked Mary to conduct her to the sewing-room, and there she found a pile of work, which would have been exceedingly disheartening to a less resolute spirit.

But the young girl had bravely determined to do the best she could and not worry about the result.

Fate had willed that she must work for her living, and she had resolved not to murmur at her lot, but, putting forth all her energies, hope to please her employer and meet with success in her undertaking.

So she arranged her chair and table by a pleasant window overlooking the street, and then boldly attacked the mountain before her.

"I wonder if Mrs. Montague intends to have these done by hand or machine?" she mused, as she shook out the folds of snowy cloth and began to turn a hem on one of the sheets. "And then"—with a puzzled expression—"how am I to know how broad to make the hems?"

She feared to go on with the work without special directions, for she might make some mistake. But after considering the matter, she determined to leave the sheets altogether and do the over-and-over sewing on the pillow-slips, until she could ascertain Mrs. Montague's wishes.

Mona was naturally quick in all her movements, and, being also very persevering, she had accomplished considerable by ten o'clock, when Mrs. Montague, in an elegant morning negligée of light-blue cashmere, and looking as lovely as an houri, strolled languidly into the sewing-room to see what her new seamstress was about.

"Oh, you are sewing up the slips," she remarked, as she nodded in reply to Mona's polite good morning and observed her employment. "I forgot to tell you about the hems last night, and I have been afraid ever since I awoke this morning that you would not make them broad enough."

"Yes, I feared I might make some mistake, so left them," Mona answered, but without stopping her work.

"How beautiful your seams look!" the lady said, as she examined some of the slips. "Your stitches are very fine and even; but over-and-over sewing must be very monotonous work. You might vary it by hemming a sheet now and then. I want the hems three inches wide on both ends."

"Do you have them stitched or done by hand?" Mona inquired.

"Oh, stitched; I have a beautifully running machine, and I want to get them out of the way as soon as possible, for there is dressmaking to be done. Can you run a White machine?"

Mona was conscious that her companion was regarding her very earnestly during this conversation, but she appeared not to notice it, and replied:

"I never have, but if I could be shown how to thread it, I think I should have no difficulty."

She was very thankful to know that all that mountain before her was not to be done by hand.

"Do you like to sew?" Mrs. Montague inquired, as she watched the girl's pretty hand in its deft manipulation of the needle.

Mona smiled sadly.

"I used to think I did," she said, after a moment's hesitation, "but when one is obliged to do one thing continually it becomes monotonous and irksome."

"How long have you been obliged to support yourself by sewing?" the woman asked, curiously, for to her there seemed to be something very incongruous in this beautiful high-bred girl drudging all day long as a seamstress.

Mona flushed at the question.

There was nothing she dreaded so much as being questioned regarding her past life.

"Not very long; death robbed me of friends and home, and so I was obliged to earn my living," she returned, after considering a moment how she should answer.

"Then you are an orphan?"

"Yes."

"Have you no relatives?" and the lovely but keen blue eyes of the lady were fixed very searchingly upon the fair young face.

"None that I know of."

"You do not look as if you had ever done much work of any kind," Mrs. Montague observed. "You seem more like a person who has been reared in luxury; your hands are very fair and delicate; your dress is of very fine and expensive material, and—why, there is real Valenciennes lace on your pocket-handkerchief!"

Mona was becoming very nervous under this close inspection. She saw that Mrs. Montague was curious about her, though she did not for a moment imagine that she could have the slightest suspicion regarding her identity; yet she feared that she might be trapped into betraying something in an unguarded moment, if she continued this kind of examination.

"I always buy good material," she quietly remarked, "I think it is economy to do so, and—my handkerchief was given to me. How wide did you tell me to make the hems on these pillow-slips?" she asked, in conclusion, to change the subject, but mentally resolving that Mrs. Montague should never see any but plain handkerchiefs about her again.

"I did not tell you any width for the slips," was the dry, yet haughty rejoinder, for madame could not fail to understand that she had been politely admonished that her curiosity was becoming annoying to her fair seamstress, "but you may make them to match those upon the sheets—three inches."

She arose, immediately after giving this order, and swept proudly from the room, and Mona did not see her again that day. It seemed to the poor girl, with her unaccustomed work, the longest one she had ever known, and she grew heavy-hearted, and very weary before it was over.

She had all her life been in the habit of taking plenty of exercise in the open air. While she was studying, Mr. Dinsmore had made her walk to and from school, then after lunch they would either go for a drive or for a canter in the park or the suburbs of the city.

She had never been subjected to any irksome restraint, and so it seemed very hard to be obliged to sit still for so many hours at a time and do nothing but "stitch! stitch! stitch!" like the woman in the "Song of the Shirt."

But six o'clock came at last, to release her from those endless seams and hems, and after she had eaten her dinner she was so completely wearied out that she crept up to her bed and almost immediately fell asleep.

But the next morning she was pale and heavy-eyed, and Mrs. Montague evidently realized that it was unwise to make her apply herself so steadily, for she made out a memorandum of several little things which she wanted and sent Mona down town to purchase them.

The girl came back looking so bright and fresh, and went at her work with so much vigor, the woman smiled wisely to herself.

"She hasn't been used to such close application, it is plain to be seen," she mused, "and I must take care or she will give out. She sews beautifully, though, and rapidly, and I want to keep her, for I believe she can be made very useful."

So every day after that she sent her out for a while on some pretext or other, and Mona felt grateful for these moments of respite.

One day she was sent to Macy's with a longer list than usual, and while there she came face to face with a couple of acquaintances—young ladies who, like herself, had only that winter been introduced to society.

They had been only too eager, whenever they had met her in company, to claim the wealthy Mr. Dinsmore's niece as their friend.

Mona bowed and smiled to-day, as she met them, but was astonished and dismayed beyond measure when they both gave her a rude stare of surprise, and then passed on without betraying the slightest sign of recognition.

For a moment Mona's face was like a scarlet flame, then all her color as quickly fled, leaving her ghastly white as she realized that she had received the cut direct.

Her heart beat so heavily that she was oppressed by a feeling almost of suffocation, and was obliged to stop and lean against a pillar for a moment for support.

She did not see that a young man was standing near, watching her with a peculiar smile on his bold face. He had observed the whole proceeding, and well understood its meaning, while, during all the time that Mona remained in the store, he followed her at a distance. Her emotion passed after a moment, and then all her pride arose in arms. Her eyes flashed, her lips curled, and she straightened herself haughtily.

"They are beneath me," she murmured. "Homeless, friendless as I am to-day, I would not exchange places with them. I am superior to them even in my poverty, for I would not wound the humblest person in the world with such rudeness and ill-breeding."

Yet, in spite of this womanly spirit, in spite of the contempt which she felt for such miserable pride of purse and position, she was deeply wounded and made to realize, as she never yet had done, that Mrs. Richmond Montague's seamstress would henceforth be regarded as a very different person from Miss Mona Montague, the heiress and a petted beauty in society.

She did not care to go out shopping so much after that; but when obliged to do so she avoided as much as possible those places where she would be liable to meet old acquaintances.

She would take her airing after lunch in the quiet streets of the neighborhood, and then return to her tasks in the sewing-room.

She was not quite so lonely after a dressmaker came to do some fitting for Mrs. Montague, for the woman was kind and sociable, and, becoming interested in the beautiful sewing-girl, seemed to try to make the time pass pleasantly to her, and was a great help to her about her work.

Mona often wondered how Mrs. Montague would feel if she should know who she was. Sometimes she was almost inclined to think that she did suspect the truth, for she often found her regarding her with a curious and intent look. It occurred to her that the woman might possibly have known her mother, and noticed her resemblance to her, for Mr. Dinsmore had told her that she looked very much like her.

One day Mona was standing close beside her, while she tried on a fichu which she had been fixing for her to wear that evening, when the woman broke out abruptly, while she scanned her face intently:

"For whom are you in mourning, Ruth?"

Mona did not know just how to reply to this direct question; but after an instant's reflection she said:

"The dearest friend I had in the world. Do you not remember, Mrs.
Montague, that I told you I was an orphan? I am utterly friendless."

Mrs. Montague regarded her with a peculiar look for a moment, but she did not pursue the subject, and Mona was greatly relieved.

"If she knew my mother," she told herself, "and has discovered my resemblance to her—if she knew Uncle Walter, and I had told her I was in mourning for him—she would have known at once who I am."

It was very evident that her employer was pleased with her work, for she frequently complimented her upon her neatly finished seams, while the dressmaker asserted that she had seldom had one so young to work with her who was so efficient.

On the whole she was kindly treated; she was in a pleasant and luxurious home, although in the capacity of a servant; her wages were fair, and for the present she felt that she could not do better than to remain where she was, while she experienced a very gratifying feeling of independence in being able to provide for herself.

She had seen Mr. Graves only once since leaving her own home, and then she had met him on the street during one of her daily walks.

He had told her that Mr. Dinsmore's property had all passed into the hands of his wife, although the house had not as yet been disposed of; it had been rented, furnished, to a family for a year. He said he had never met Mrs. Dinsmore; all her business had been transacted through her lawyer, and the woman evidently did not like, for some reason, to appear personally in the settlement of the property.

He kindly inquired how she endured the confinement of her new life, and urged her cordially to come to him whenever she was tired and needed a rest, telling her that she should always be sure of a warm welcome.

A day or two after this meeting with her old friend, and just as she was returning from her usual walk, Mona encountered a young man as she was about to mount the steps leading into Mrs. Montague's residence.

He was dressed in the height of fashion, and might have been regarded as fairly good-looking if he had not been so conceited and self-conscious.

The young girl did not bestow more than a passing glance upon him, supposing him to be some stranger whom she might never meet again.

She ran lightly up the steps, when, what was her surprise to find him following her, and, just as she was on the point of ringing for admittance, he stayed her hand, by remarking, with excessive politeness:

"I have a latch-key, miss—pray allow me to admit you."

Of course, Mona knew then that this young exquisite must be the nephew of
Mrs. Montague, of whom Mary had told her—Mr. Louis Hamblin.

She observed him more closely as she thanked him, and saw that he was apparently about twenty-five years of age, with light-brown hair, blue eyes, and somewhat irregular, yet not unpleasant, features. He was well formed, rather tall, and carried himself with ease, though somewhat proudly.

He was evidently impressed with Mona's appearance, as his look of admiration plainly indicated.

He appeared to regard her as some visitor to see his aunt, for his manner was both respectful and gentlemanly as he opened the door, and then stood aside to allow her to pass in.

Mona bowed in acknowledgment of this courtesy, and, entering, passed directly through the hall and up stairs, greatly to the young man's astonishment.

He gave vent to a low whistle, and exclaimed, under his breath, as he deposited his cane in the stand and drew off his gloves:

"Jove! I imagined her to be some high-toned caller, and she is only some working girl. Really, though, she is as fine a specimen of young womanhood as I have encountered in many a day, and I should like to see more of her. Ah, Aunt Marg," he went on, as Mrs. Montague came sweeping down the stairs, just then, in an elaborate dinner costume, "how fine you look, and I'm on time, you perceive! How about the McKenzie reception to-night?"

"We must go, of course," responded the lady, in a somewhat weary tone, "for Mrs. McKenzie would be offended if we should remain away, though I am really too tired after the Ashton ball last evening to go out again; besides, I do not like to wear a dress that isn't properly finished; but I shall have to, for the girls cannot possibly do all that needs to be done."

"You are too particular, Aunt Marg. What if every seam isn't bound just as you like it? Your general make-up is always superb. By the way, who was that girl in black who just came in and went up stairs?" the young man concluded, as if it had only just occurred to him to inquire regarding her.

"Oh, that was Ruth Richards, my seamstress; she had just been out on an errand," Mrs. Montague indifferently returned as they passed into the drawing-room.

"Ruth Richards? Pretty name, isn't it?" her companion remarked, "and the girl herself is a stunner—one does not often meet so lovely a seamstress."

Mrs. Montague turned upon him sharply.

"Nonsense, Louis," she said, impatiently; "don't allow your head to be turned by every pretty face that you see. There are plenty of fine-looking girls in our own set, without wasting your admiration upon a poor sewing-girl."

"I never should have imagined that she was a sewing-girl," Mr. Hamblin returned. "I supposed her to be some aristocratic young lady of your acquaintance, who had come for a social call. She carries herself like a young queen; her form is simply perfect, and her face!—well, were I an artist I should love to paint it," he concluded, with unusual enthusiasm.

Mrs. Montague shrugged her graceful shoulders, and curled her red lips scornfully.

"What would Kitty McKenzie say if she could hear you run on like this about a girl who has to work for her living?" she sneered.

"Kitty McKenzie cannot hold a candle to Ruth Richards. Dress her as Kitty rigs herself out and all New York would be raving about her," the young man replied.

"Louis Hamblin, I am all out of patience with you! Kitty would feel highly complimented with your opinion of her charms," cried his aunt, angrily. "But let me tell you," she added, resolutely, "I shall not countenance any fooling with that young lady; you have shown her very marked attention, and she has a right to expect that you have serious intentions. You know that I should be only too glad to have you marry Kitty; she is a sweet girl, to say nothing about her beauty, while the McKenzies are all that could be desired, both as to wealth and position; and the day that Kitty becomes your wife I will match her dowry as a wedding-gift to you."

"Thank you; I know that you are all that is kind and good in your plans for me, Aunt Margie," Louis responded, in a conciliatory tone, "and you need not fear that I am rashly going to throw Kitty over; we are the best of friends, although not acknowledged lovers. I cannot quite make up my mind to propose, for, really, I do not feel like tying myself down just yet."

"It would be a good thing for you—you have sown wild oats enough, Louis, and it is time that you began to think of settling down in life. If you please me you know that a brilliant future awaits you, for you are my only heir," Mrs. Montague concluded, as she searched his face earnestly.

"My dear Aunt Margie, you well know there is nothing I like to do better than to please you," was the gallant response, and Mrs. Montague believed him, and smoothed her ruffled plumage.

"Nevertheless," Mr. Louis Hamblin remarked later, while smoking his cigar by himself, "I shall try to see more of that pretty seamstress, without regard to the McKenzie expectations. Jove! what eyes she has! and her low 'thank you,' as I let her in, had the most musical sound I've heard in many a day. Stay," he added, with a start, "now I think of it, she must be the same girl to whom those proud upstarts gave the cut direct in Macy's the other day. I thought her face was familiar, and didn't she pull herself together gloriously after it. There's a romance connected with her, I'll bet. She must have been in society, or she could not have known them well enough to salute them as she did. Really, Miss Ruth Richards grows more and more interesting to me."

CHAPTER XI.

RAY'S EXPERIENCE.

While Mona was plodding her monotonous way among sheets and pillow-slips, table linen and dressmaking, in Mrs. Montague's elegant home, Raymond Palmer was also being subjected to severe discipline, although of a different character.

We left him locked within a padded chamber in the house of Doctor Wesselhoff, who was a noted specialist in the treatment of diseases of the brain and nerves.

It will be remembered that Ray had been hypnotized into a profound slumber, from which he did not awake for many hours.

When at last he did arouse, he was both calmed and refreshed, while he was surprised to find that a small table, on which a tempting lunch was arranged, had been drawn close beside the lounge where he lay.

He was really hungry, and arose and began to partake with relish of the various viands before him, while, at the same time, he looked about the artfully constructed chamber he was in with no small degree of curiosity.

He remembered perfectly all that had occurred from the time he left his father's store in company with the charming Mrs. Vanderbeck until he had been so strangely over-powered with sleep by the influence of those masterful eyes, which had peered at him through an aperture in the wall.

As his mind went back over the strange incidents of the day he began to experience anew great anxiety over the loss of the rare stones which had been so cleverly stolen from him, and also regarding the fate in store for him.

He knew that the diamonds were in his pocket when the carriage stopped before the house, for he had not removed his hand from the package until Mrs. Vanderbeck discovered that her dress had been caught in the door of the carriage.

That very circumstance, he felt sure, was a part of the skillfully executed plot, and he was convinced that the woman must have robbed him during the moment when he had bent forward and tried to extricate it for her; while she must have concealed the package somewhere in the coupé while she was apparently trying to pin together the rent in her dress.

Then, as soon as he alighted, how adroitly she had filled his arms with her bundles and kept his attention so engaged that he did not think of the diamonds again, until the gentleman of the house appeared in the room where Mrs. Vanderbeck had left him.

Oh, how negligent he had been! He should not have released his hold upon that package under any circumstances, he told himself; and yet, he argued, if he had been ever so careful he might have been over-powered and the stones taken by violence, if the woman's cunning had failed to accomplish the desired object.

He firmly believed that he was in a den of thieves, and that the man who had come to him in the reception-room and conducted him into that chamber was in league with the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck, who had so fascinated him and hoodwinked his father into sending out such costly jewels for examination.

Then his mind reverted to the strange sensations which he had experienced beneath those human eyes after being trapped into the padded chamber, and a shiver of repulsion ran over him. Was he a captive in the hands of, and at the mercy of, a gang of conjurers and mesmerists? The thought was horrible to him. He had courage enough to defend himself in a hand-to-hand encounter, but he felt powerless to contend against such diabolical influences as he had already been subjected to.

While he was pondering these things, he heard the bolt to the door shoot back, and in another moment a strange man entered the room.

Ray started to his feet, and boldly confronted him.

"Who are you?" he haughtily demanded.

"My name is Huff, sir," the man returned, in a calm, respectful tone, "and I have come to see what I can do for you."

"There is but one thing I desire you to do—release me instantly from this wretched place!" Ray responded authoritatively.

"Yes, yes; all in good time. Doctor Wesselhoff will attend to that," Mr.
Huff mildly replied.

"Doctor Wesselhoff?" exclaimed Ray, astonished. "I have heard of him. He is the noted brain and nerve specialist, isn't he?"

"Yes, sir."

"And—am I in his house?" the young man demanded, his amazement in nowise abated.

"Yes, this is Doctor Wesselhoff's residence."

"That is very strange! I cannot understand!" Ray remarked, deeply perplexed. "Why am I here?"

"You—have not been quite well of late, and you are here for treatment."

"For treatment? Do you mean that I am here as a patient of Doctor
Wesselhoff?" cried Ray, aghast.

"Yes, sir, for a little while, until you are better."

"Who brought me here? Who made arrangements for my coming here?"

"Your own friends; and really, sir, it would be better if you would accept the situation quietly," said the man, in a conciliatory tone.

Ray began to get excited again at this information, and the more so, that he did not believe it, while the mystery of his situation seemed to deepen.

He had heard of Doctor Wesselhoff, as he had said; he knew that he was regarded as one of the finest brain specialists in the metropolis, if not in the country, and that, as a man, he stood high in the estimation of the public.

This being the case, he certainly would not lend himself to such an outrageous trick as had been practiced upon him that day.

He did not believe what the old man told him—he did not believe that he was in Doctor Wesselhoff's house at all. It was only a lie on the part of the diamond thieves to further their own schemes, he thought, and yet the man's manner was so respectful, and even kind, that he was deeply perplexed.

"There is nothing the matter with me—I am as sane as you are," he said, flushing angrily at the idea of being regarded as a lunatic.

"Yes—yes; we will hope so," was the gentle response, as the attendant began to gather the dishes and remnants of Ray's lunch.

"You say that my friends brought me here," persisted the young man; "that is false; I was brought here by a woman whom I never saw before, and who robbed me of valuable diamonds. If she arranged for my coming, it is all a trick. But what did she claim was my special malady?" he concluded, with considerable curiosity.

"We will not talk any more about it now, sir, if you please," said his companion, in a soothing tone. "Doctor Wesselhoff will explain it all to you when he returns."

"When he returns? Where has he gone—how long will he be absent?" Ray demanded, with a sinking heart, for time was precious, and he was almost wild to get away to hunt for the thieves who had robbed him; while, too, he knew that his father must already have become alarmed at his long absence.

"The doctor was called away by a telegram only an hour ago," the attendant replied, hoping by this explanation to divert the mind of his charge from his mania of robbery. "His wife, who went South a week ago to visit friends, has been taken suddenly ill, and he was obliged to hasten to her; but he will return at the earliest possible moment."

"Gone South! and I must remain here until his return?" Ray cried, in a voice of agony. "I will not," he went on fiercely, his face growing crimson with angry excitement. "I tell you I am perfectly well, and I have been only tricked into this place by some cunning thief who has robbed me. Whether Doctor Wesselhoff is concerned in it or not, I cannot tell. I confess it seems very like it to me, although I have always heard him well spoken of. Stay!" he cried, with a start, "you tell me the doctor has already left the city! oh! then he must be a party to the foul wrong of which I am the victim. Let me out—I tell you I will not submit to such inhuman treatment," and he turned fiercely upon the attendant, as if he meditated attacking and overpowering him, with the hope of forcing his way from the place.

But the attendant quietly retreated before him, looking him calmly in the eye, and, as Ray pressed closely upon him, he made a few passes before his face with his hands.

Instantly the young man began to experience that same sense of weariness and drowsiness that had over-powered him when those masterful eyes had fastened themselves upon him through the hole in the wall.

"Don't! don't!" he cried, throwing out his arms as if to ward off the influence, while he tried to resist it with all his will-power.

But his arm fell powerless by his side and he sank into a chair near which he was standing, and the attendant turned and left the room, a smile of peculiar satisfaction on his face.

"That was very well done, I think, for a pupil of the great Doctor Wesselhoff," he muttered, as he shot the bolt into the socket and turned to go about other duties. "It will not be long before I shall be able to exert the power as skillfully as he does."

Ray sat as one half dazed for a few moments after the departure of Mr. Huff, and tried to combat with all the strength of his will the strange desire to sleep.

Then suddenly his glance became riveted upon something that was clinging to the leg of his trousers.

He stooped to pick it off, examining it closely, and uttered an exclamation of surprise upon finding that it was a small piece of ladies' cloth of a delicate mauve color.

"Ha!" he cried, excitedly; "it is as precious as gold dust, and may prove to be very useful to me. How fortunate I am to have found it!"

It was a small piece of woolen goods that had been torn from Mrs. Vanderbeck's dress, and Ray, after a moment, put it carefully away in his pocket-book, in the hope of some time finding the rent that it would fit.

It was true that Doctor Wesselhoff had been suddenly called away to his sick wife.

No other summons would have had the power to draw him away from New York at that time, for he experienced great anxiety and interest regarding the new and peculiar case that had just been confided to his care.

He really believed that Ray—or young Walton, as he believed his patient's name to be, in spite of the fact that he had given it as Palmer—was a monomaniac; for his words and manner fully corroborated the statement which his visitor of the previous day had made to him. He had not the slightest suspicion that he also was the dupe of a cunning plot to secure diamonds that were worth a large sum of money.

But before leaving the city he gave the most careful directions to his pupil, Doctor Huff, who had been studying with him for more than a year, regarding the treatment of his patient, and then he was obliged to hurry away, promising, however, that he would return just as soon as it would do to leave his wife.

It took him two days of continuous travel to reach his destination, and then he found Mrs. Wesselhoff so very ill that all his thought and care were concentrated upon her.

The place to which he went was a remote Southern town, where Northern newspapers seldom found their way; consequently he could not know anything of the intense excitement that was prevailing in New York over the mysterious disappearance of Raymond Palmer and the costly stones he had taken with him.

To his pupil he had hastily explained all that he could regarding the young man's case, and had told him that his name was Walton; so, of course, Doctor Huff, on reading an account of the diamond robbery and the strange disappearance of the merchant's son, never dreamed that the patient left in his charge was the missing young man.

Mr. Palmer did not seem to be at all troubled over the non-appearance of his son until the time arrived to close the store for the night; then he began to feel some anxiety.

Still, he told himself, Ray might possibly have been detained longer than he had anticipated, and finding it rather late to return to the store, had gone immediately home, where there was also a safe in which the diamonds could be deposited for the night.

With this hope to rest upon, he hastened to his residence, but was made even more anxious upon being told by the housekeeper "that Mr. Raymond had not come in yet."

He kept hoping he might come, so he ate his supper and then tried to compose himself to read his papers; but his uneasiness only continued to increase.

He endured the suspense until nine o'clock, and then went down town to consult with the superintendent of police.

He confided to him what had occurred, and his fears regarding the safety of his son, and he was by no means reassured when that official at once exclaimed that "the whole thing was a put-up job."

"Keep quiet," he advised, "for a day or two, and we will see what we can do."

He set his detectives at work upon the case immediately, while the anxious father endeavored to endure his suffering in silence. But the "day or two" brought no revelations, and his agony could no longer be controlled; he believed that his son had been murdered for the sake of the diamonds, and thus the matter became public.

The newspapers were full of the affair, and caused great excitement. The city offered a large reward for any intelligence regarding the missing young man or the diamonds, and this was doubled by Mr. Palmer himself.

But days and weeks passed, and no clew was obtained regarding either the stolen jewels or Ray's mysterious fate; therefore the belief that he had been foully dealt with prevailed very generally.

Mr. Palmer had placed in the hands of a private detective a detailed account in writing of the woman's visit to the store, and also a minute description of herself, and the moment he had finished reading it the man's face lighted up with eager interest, even enthusiasm.

"Great Scott!" exclaimed the detective, with a resounding slap upon his knee, "I'll wager my badge that it's a sequel to that Bently affair, when a young broker of Chicago was wretchedly fooled with some diamonds about three years ago!—that woman also had short, curly red hair."

He related the story to Mr. Palmer, and informed him that he had been engaged upon the case, off and on, for a long time; but since he had come to New York to reside he had about given it up as hopeless.

"This may put me on the trail again, however," finally remarked Mr.
Rider, who was the detective that Justin Cutler had employed.

Of course, the house which Mrs. Vanderbeck had given as her place of residence was visited, but as in the Bently affair, it proved to be empty, and Mrs. Vanderbeck seemed to have vanished as completely as if she had been a visitant from some other sphere.

All this had occurred while Mona was so absorbed in her grief for her uncle; when she had had no interest in anything outside her home, and so not having read any of the newspapers, she was entirely ignorant of the excitement that had prevailed over the robbery, and Ray's disappearance. Thus she believed that he had deserted her, like most of her other fair-weather friends, and was trying to make herself believe that he was unworthy of her regard.

Poor Ray! it had fared hard with him during all this time, although not in the way that his father and the detectives feared.

We last saw him just after he had discovered the shred that had been torn from Mrs. Vanderbeck's dress; but when Doctor Huff again went to him he found him prostrate upon the floor in a high fever and delirious.

For four weeks he lay thus. He had taken a severe cold, and that, with the excitement and anxiety caused by the loss of the diamonds, had brought on the illness.

When Doctor Wesselhoff returned after a hard fight with disease in his wife's case, he found him very low, and just at the turning point in his fever.

He bestowed great commendation upon his pupil, however, for his management of the case, which, he said, he could not have treated better himself.

He expressed himself as very much surprised, because none of the young man's friends had called to make any inquiries about him; it certainly showed a lack of interest, if not a positive neglect, he thought.

He believed that the fever would turn favorably, for the young man had a naturally vigorous constitution, and he had known of persons recovering who had possessed far less vitality.

Ray did pass the crisis successfully, but he was very weak for many days longer; too weak even to notice where he was, or who was caring for him.

But, as he gained a little strength, he looked curiously about him, then memory began to assert itself—he recalled the events which had occurred on that fateful day, when he had been made a captive, and he realized that he had been moved from that dismal padded chamber to a large and airy room in another portion of the house.

The next time Doctor Wesselhoff came to his bedside, after he had come thoroughly to himself, he said, in a grave but authoritative voice:

"Doctor Wesselhoff, sit down if you please; I want to talk with you for a few moments."

The physician obeyed, but with some surprise, for both the look and manner of his patient convinced him that he was perfectly rational.

"I have been very ill, have I not?" Ray inquired.

"Yes, but you are much better and steadily improving."

"How long have I been sick?"

"It is more than five weeks now since you were attacked."

Ray frowned at this information.

How must his father feel regarding his strange absence? What had become of that cunning thief and the diamonds? were questions which suggested themselves to him.

But he simply asked:

"When did you return to New York?"

"About a week ago," the physician replied. "I was very sorry to have to leave you as I did, but the summons to my wife was imperative, and of course my duty was by her side."

A sarcastic smile curled Ray's lips at this last remark.

"I am only surprised that you returned at all," he quietly responded.

"Why?" inquired the physician, with some astonishment.

"It is not always safe, you know," Ray answered, looking him straight in the eye, "for one who has aided and abetted a stupendous robbery to appear so soon upon the scene of his depredations."

Doctor Wesselhoff's face fell.

He had hoped that, when the young man should recover, all signs of his peculiar mania would disappear; but this did not seem much like it, and he began to fear the case might prove a very obstinate one.

"I think you must rest now," he remarked, evading the subject; "you have talked long enough this time."

"Perhaps I have, but I do not intend to rest until I have come to some definite understanding regarding my relations with you," Ray responded, resolutely.

"Well, then, what do you mean by a definite understanding?" the physician asked, thinking it might be as well to humor him a little.

"I want to know how far you are concerned in this plot to keep me a prisoner here? I want to know in what way you are connected with that woman who called herself Mrs. Vanderbeck, and who enticed me here with valuable diamonds, only to steal them from me? I believe I am in the power of a gang of thieves, and though I cannot reconcile it with what I had heard of you previously, that you must be associated in some way with them."

Ray had spoken rapidly, and with an air and tone of stern command, which puzzled while it impressed the doctor.

"You bring a very serious charge against me, my young friend," he gravely remarked, but without betraying the slightest resentment; "but perhaps if you will tell me your side of the story I shall understand you better, and then I will explain my authority for detaining you here."

Doctor Wesselhoff was strangely attracted toward his patient. He did not seem at all like an insane person, except upon that one subject, and he would not have regarded that as a mania if he had not been assured of it by Mrs. Walton. He began to think there might at least be some misunderstanding, and that it would be as well to let the young man exhaust the subject once for all; then he could judge the better regarding the treatment he needed.

"Well, then, to begin at the beginning," Ray resumed. "A woman, giving her name as Mrs. William Vanderbeck, called at my father's store on the day I came here, and asked to look at diamonds. You will remember, I told you my father is a diamond dealer. They were shown to her, and she selected several very expensive ornaments, which she said she wished to wear at a reception that evening. But she represented that she could not purchase them unless they were first submitted to her husband for examination and his sanction. He was an invalid; he could not come to the store, consequently the stones must be taken to him; was there not some reliable person who could be sent to her residence with them, when, if Mr. Vanderbeck was satisfied with the ornaments, a check for their price would be filled out and returned to my father. This seemed fair and reasonable, and I was commissioned to attend the lady and take charge of the diamonds. I put the package in my pocket, and my hand never left it until the coupé stopped before this house, when Mrs. Vanderbeck suddenly discovered that her dress had caught in the carriage door, and she could not rise. Of course I offered assistance in disengaging it; but in spite of our united efforts, the garment was torn during the operation. I suppose she robbed me at that moment, but am not quite sure, as I did not discover my loss until you—whom I supposed to be the lady's husband—entered the room, and I slipped my hand into my pocket for the diamonds, only to find that they were gone. You know the rest, and the treatment I received from yourself. Is it any wonder that I believed you an accomplice when I found myself in that padded chamber and losing all sense and reason beneath the influence of a powerful mesmerist?"

Doctor Wesselhoff had listened gravely throughout the young man's recital, and, though astonished and puzzled by what he heard, felt that he was relating a very connected story.

He was upon the point of replying to his questions, when he chanced to glance at his assistant, Doctor Huff, who had been in the room all the time, and saw that he was startlingly pale, and laboring under extreme agitation.

"Sir," cried the man, hoarsely, "can it be possible that he is the victim of the recent diamond robbery, which has created so much excitement? The newspapers have been full of the story that he has just related."

CHAPTER XII.

AMOS PALMER FINDS HIS SON.

"What do you mean?" Doctor Wesselhoff sharply demanded, and losing color himself at the sudden suspicion that he also might have been the dupe of a set of rogues.

"Haven't you seen an account of the affair in the papers?" Doctor Huff asked. "They were full of it for two weeks after you left home."

"No, I did not see a New York paper from the time I started until I returned. I could not get one, even if I had not had too many cares and been too much absorbed in my wife's critical condition to think of or read news of any kind," Doctor Wesselhoff replied. Then, with a sudden thought, as he turned again to Ray: "Young man, is not your name Walton?"

"You know it is not," said Ray, with a flash of indignation. "I told you, the day I came, that my name is Palmer—Raymond Palmer."

"He is the man!" cried the assistant, starting up and regarding the invalid with a look of fear, "and it was Amos Palmer, the diamond merchant, who was robbed!"

"Can it be possible!" exclaimed the physician, amazed at this intelligence. "That woman—Mrs. Walton—told me that he was her son, only at times he denied his own name, so when he told me his name was 'Palmer' that day I imagined it only a freak produced by his mania."

Ray had been regarding the man curiously during this speech. He surely did not appear like a person who would have anything to do with so daring a crime as that of which he had accused him. He was strikingly noble in appearance; his manner was quietly dignified and self-possessed—he had a finely shaped head, a kind eye, a genial smile, while his astonishment and dismay over what he had just been told seemed too genuine to be feigned.

"Did you not expect to find me in your reception-room? Did no lady inform you of my arrival on the day I came here?" Ray inquired, searching his face earnestly.

"No, I saw no lady—a servant came to tell me that a gentleman was waiting to see me," responded the doctor.

"Then she must have gone immediately out and made off with all possible speed," said Ray, musingly.

"But," Doctor Wesselhoff continued, as if he had not heard his remark, "the woman I spoke of—a Mrs. Walton—called upon me the previous day and arranged with me to take you as a patient. She was upward of fifty years of age, her hair was white, and she had the look of one who had known much care and sorrow."

He then proceeded to relate all that had occurred during the interview, and Ray was astonished at the daring scheme which had been so successfully planned and carried out.

When the physician concluded his account, Ray gravely and positively declared:

"I do not know any person by the name of Walton. If this woman told you that she was my mother, she uttered a falsehood, for I have no mother—she died more than ten years ago, and her place has been filled, as well as another could fill it, by a housekeeper. My home is No. 119 —— street; but, Doctor Wesselhoff, if you still doubt my statements, and imagine that I am laboring under a peculiar mania, you can easily ascertain the truth by bringing my father here to prove my assertions. I beg that you will do so without delay, for he must be suffering the most harrowing suspense on my account."

Doctor Wesselhoff looked very much disturbed, for the more he talked with Ray, the more fully convinced he was that he had been unconsciously lending his aid to further an atrocious crime.

But as he saw how pale and weary his patient was, he was recalled to a sense of his duty as a physician.

He arose and kindly took the young man's hand.

"I am very much afraid," he said, "that we are both the victims of a complicated plot; but let me assure you that so far as I am concerned, the wrong to you shall be made right without a moment's delay. Now I want you to go to sleep, and while you are resting I will seek an interview with the man whom you claim as your father."

Ray's weak fingers closed over the hand he held in a friendly clasp at this assurance, and he was at once inspired with implicit confidence in the physician.

"Thank you," he said, a trustful smile wreathing his thin lips, "I will be obedient and go to sleep, but I shall expect to find my father here when I awake."

"If Amos Palmer is your father, you will surely find him by your bedside after you have had your nap," Doctor Wesselhoff responded, and with another hand-clasp he withdrew from the room.

In less than five minutes Ray was sleeping quietly and restfully.

Half an hour later the great brain specialist rang the bell of Amos Palmer's handsome residence. The servant who answered it replied in the affirmative when asked if the gentleman of the house was in, and ushered the visitor into a richly furnished reception-room leading from the hall.

A few minutes later a sorrowful, despondent-looking gentleman entered, and politely, although somewhat absently, saluted his caller.

He did not look much like the upright, energetic and affable gentleman who had so courteously served the elegant Mrs. Vanderbeck a few weeks previous.

His face was wan and drawn with anguish, his cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken, heavy and lusterless; his form was bowed, his steps feeble and faltering.

After saluting Doctor Wesselhoff, he threw himself, with a heavy sigh, into a chair, where he immediately became absorbed in his own painful thoughts, appearing to forget that there was any one present, or that there were duties devolving upon him as host.

"Mr. Palmer," said the physician, breaking in upon his sorrowful reverie, "my name is Wesselhoff, and I have called to consult with you regarding the very peculiar circumstances connected with your son's disappearance."

Amos Palmer was like one electrified upon hearing this. He sat erect, and stared with wondering eyes at his companion, and began to tremble violently.

"My son! my son!" he cried, in quavering tones. "Oh, if you can tell me anything—if you can tell me that he—lives," the word was scarcely audible, "you will put new life into me."

"Tell me his full name, if you please," said Doctor Wesselhoff, who was scarcely less excited than the trembling man before him.

"Raymond Palmer."

"Describe him to me."

Amos Palmer gave him a minute description of the young man as he appeared on the day that he had been trapped into the physician's house, even to the clothing which he had worn, and the doctor was at last convinced that, all unwittingly, he had assisted in the perpetration of a double crime.

"Yes," he said, when the eager father had concluded, and feeling that he must at once relieve the terrible suspense under which his companion was laboring; "your son lives, and is longing to see his father."

"Oh, then, I have nothing more to wish for—the world will be bright to me once more, for he was my all, Doctor Wesselhoff—my last, and best beloved. I have laid six children in the grave, and all my hopes were centered in Ray. My boy! my boy! I am content to know that you live—that you are not lost to me!"

The over-wrought man broke down utterly at this point, bowed his face upon his hands, and sobbed almost convulsively.

Doctor Wesselhoff was also greatly moved at the sight of his emotion, but as soon as he could control himself sufficiently, he remarked:

"I have a very strange story to tell you, Mr. Palmer, and you may be inclined, as your son was at first, to suspect me of complicity in the affair. I am, however, willing to be subjected to a rigorous investigation, if you demand it; but let me assure you that the moment I discovered the truth, I saw that I, as well as you, had been wretchedly imposed upon, and I was anxious to do all in my power to right the wrong."

He then related all that he had told Ray, and all that we already know, while Amos Palmer listened with wonder to the unfolding of the bold and cunning scheme which had so baffled the police and the best detectives in New York.

"It is the most devilish plot I ever heard of if you will excuse the expression," Mr. Palmer excitedly exclaimed, when his visitor had concluded his narrative.

"It certainly was a very brazen one, yet very cleverly arranged, and just as artfully carried out," Doctor Wesselhoff remarked; and then he inquired, while he regarded his companion with earnest interest: "But have you no doubts as to the truth of my statements? Have you no suspicions that I might also be concerned in the plot?"

"No, sir; I am impressed that you are a man of truth and honor. I have heard of you, and know something of your reputation; and I can but feel thankful that my son fell into your hands, rather than into the clutches of some unprincipled villain," Mr. Palmer replied, with a hearty confidence in his tones that could not be doubted. Then he added: "Excuse me for a few moments while I order my carriage, then you shall take me at once to my son."

Amos Palmer seemed a changed man now that hope throbbed once more in his heart, and he started up with all his old-time vigor and energy to leave the room.

But Doctor Wesselhoff stopped him.

"My own carriage is at your door—do not wait for yours; come at once with me and I will have you sent home when you are ready to return; but Mr. Palmer, you must be prepared to find your son greatly changed, for he has been very ill; the worst is over, however, and he will gain rapidly now, if we take proper care of him."

In a few moments the two men were driving rapidly toward the physician's residence, while they more fully discussed the affair of the robbery, and the skillful way in which it had been managed.

"I would never have believed that a woman could have nerve enough to attempt anything so daring," Mr. Palmer remarked. "I should have been willing to take my oath that she—this Mrs. Vanderbeck, so called—was just what she pretended to be—a refined and cultured lady accustomed to the most polished society. She did not overdo her part in the least, and had one of the most frank and beautiful faces that I have ever seen. Her figure and carriage were superb, her manner charming. The only peculiar thing about her was her hair, which was a decided red, as were also her eyebrows, and lashes. She had fine teeth, and she was very richly, though modestly, dressed. She came to the store apparently in her own carriage, with a colored driver, and everything seemed to indicate that she belonged in the ranks of high life."

"The woman who came to me, to make arrangements for the treatment of her pretended son, was a much older woman than you describe," Doctor Wesselhoff said, in reply, "her hair was almost white, her face was somewhat wrinkled, and she appeared sad and depressed. It must be that there were two women concerned in the affair, for my visitor remarked that since her son, when under the influence of his mania, was so determined to have her arrested, she would send her sister, whom she called Mrs. Vanderbeck, with him."

"Hum—maybe my adventuress was the same person in disguise," Mr. Palmer thoughtfully observed.

"But you said she had red hair, brows, and lashes, and was quite young in appearance; while Mrs. Walton was old and wrinkled, with white hair; the brows and lashes I did not notice particularly, but they certainly were not red," Doctor Wesselhoff responded, doubtfully.

"Well, whether they were one and the same or not, the whole thing is a perplexing puzzle, and I would sacrifice a good deal to have it solved," said Mr. Palmer. "But," he added, with a sigh, "I am afraid that it never will be, for the thieves, in all probability, left New York immediately, and were sharp enough to remove the diamonds from their settings before attempting to dispose of them."

"They may overreach themselves yet and be brought to justice," Doctor Wesselhoff remarked. "But is there no way of identifying the diamonds unset?"

"Some of them—two in particular—could be identified; they were a pair of magnificent solitaires, and I am sure my expert could tell them anywhere," Mr. Palmer replied.

"It is strange that you were not suspicious of a person who wished to purchase so many diamonds at one time," said the physician, thoughtfully.

"She did not pretend that she wished to buy all that she laid out, only that her selections from the lot were to be made with the advice and sanction of her husband; and in this way—don't you see?—the clever sharper got possession of a great deal more than she would otherwise have done."

"True, she showed herself very shrewd. But your son has in his possession a clew, though a very slender one, which may possibly lead to a solution of the mystery. It is a small piece of cloth that was torn from the woman's dress," Doctor Wesselhoff returned.

"I am afraid that won't amount to much, for, probably, if the woman is still in New York, which I doubt, she will never wear that dress again," Mr. Palmer responded. "But," he continued, cheerfully, "I shall not complain as long as I am to have Ray back again. I fully believed that he had been murdered. My loss I can never tell you what anguish I have endured, for will of course eat deeply into the profits of my business for this year, but that is of comparatively little consequence. I am more troubled to have such wickedness prosper than I am about any pecuniary loss."

The carriage stopped just then, and the conversation ended. Both gentlemen alighted, and Doctor Wesselhoff led the way into his house, and straight up to the chamber which Ray occupied.

He had not aroused once during the doctor's absence, but awoke almost immediately after their entrance, and the meeting between the father and son was both joyful and tender.

Neither had ever before realized how much they were to each other, or believed that life could be so dark if they were separated.

Doctor Wesselhoff would not allow them to talk very much that night, for he said that his patient was liable to have a relapse if he became too weary or was subjected to too much excitement; so Mr. Palmer was permitted to remain only a short time with him, but promised to return again at as early an hour in the morning as the physician would allow.

He visited Ray twice every day after that, and both father and son were fully convinced of the truth and honesty of purpose of the noted specialist, who had given Ray such excellent care, and whose interest in him continued to increase throughout his recovery.

The Palmers found him very genial and entertaining, and an enduring friendship grew up between the three.

Ray improved very rapidly, and was able by the end of two weeks to return to his own home; but, though he was very thankful to be restored to health and to his father once more he was saddened and dismayed upon learning of Mr. Dinsmore's sudden death, and that Mona had been deprived of her inheritance.

He was still more appalled when, upon making inquiries, he could learn nothing of her movements since leaving her home. No one seemed to know anything about her—even her friend Susie Leades was in ignorance of her whereabouts, for Mona had shrunk, with extreme sensitiveness, from telling any one, save Mr. Graves, of her plans for the future.

Ray did not know who had been Mr. Dinsmore's man of business, so, of course, he could not appeal to the lawyer, and he was finally forced to believe that Mona had left New York.

He could not be reconciled to have her vanish so completely out of his life, just when he had begun to entertain such strong hopes of winning her for his wife.

For more than two years he had loved Mona Montague in secret, but only during the last few months had he allowed himself to show her marked attention.

She had been in school until the previous June, and he had felt sure that Mr. Dinsmore would not countenance anything that would distract her mind from her studies, therefore he had waited, with commendable patience, until she graduated before making it manifest that he experienced any especial pleasure in her society.

Mr. Dinsmore and Mona had spent the months of July and August at Lenox, Massachusetts, and Ray, having learned their plans, arranged to be there at the same time. Therefore the young people had seen considerable of each other during the summer, and before their return to New York, Ray Palmer had begun to have strong hopes that he should eventually win the beautiful girl for his wife.

They met several times in society during the early winter, and Mona always appeared so happy with him that he gradually grew bolder in his attentions, and finally formally requested the pleasure of acting as her escort in public. This request was granted, as we know, and cordial permission to call was also given him, and when Ray left Mona that night, after their attendance at the opera, he resolved to seek Mr. Dinsmore at an early day and ask the privilege of paying his addresses to his niece with the view of winning her.

But he was very unhappy over his fruitless efforts to find her, and he grew strangely silent and depressed, greatly to his father's surprise, even while he was every day gaining in health and strength.

Finally Mr. Palmer questioned him outright as to the cause; and Ray, longing for both sympathy and advice, frankly told him the truth.

"That is too bad, Ray, and I am extremely sorry," the royal-hearted man remarked. "I should be very sorry to have you disappointed in such a matter, but do not be discouraged; we will do our best to find the young lady, and then you shall bring her home as soon as you please."

"Then you approve of my choice?" Ray remarked, with some surprise at his father's interest and even anxiety to have him succeed in his suit.

"Why not? I do not know Miss Montague, but I am sure that a niece of Mr. Dinsmore, and reared with the care which he would be likely to bestow upon her, could be objectionable to no one. Mr. Dinsmore was one of the noblest of men," said Mr. Palmer, with hearty commendation.

"But Mona is only a penniless girl now," Ray responded, determined that his father should fully comprehend the situation. "Mr. Dinsmore's wife has claimed all his property, I have been told, and even if I could find and win her, my bride would have to come to me without any dowry."

"That wouldn't trouble me in the least, my boy, provided the girl herself was all right," his father gravely returned. "We have enough," he continued, smiling, "without desiring to enrich ourselves by marrying money. You shall choose your own wife, Ray, be she rich or poor, plain or beautiful; only find a sensible little woman who will be a true wife and make you happy, and I shall be more than satisfied."

"Thank you, father," Ray gratefully returned. "I wish there were more men like yourself in the world—there would surely be fewer ill-assorted marriages if there were. Only let me find Mona, and I will soon convince you that she will be a girl after your own heart, as well as mine."

CHAPTER XIII.

AT THE RECEPTION.

One evening, after Ray's entire restoration to health, he and his father attended a reception given by an old friend of Mr. Palmer's.

It was an unusually brilliant affair, for the Merrills were wealthy people, and very socially inclined, and many of the best people of New York were present.

Mr. Palmer was conversing with his host in a quiet way during a few moments while he was at liberty, when his attention was attracted by the entrance of a new arrival, whose advent seemed to create an unusual flutter of interest.

"Who is she?" he inquired, as the lady slowly approached them, smiling, bowing, and responding to the eager greetings on every hand. "She is a magnificent-looking woman."

"She is Mrs. Montague—a wealthy widow, and a great favorite in society," his friend replied, while his own eyes rested admiringly upon the lady.

"Montague! Montague!" Mr. Palmer repeated reflectively, while he said to himself: "That is the name of Ray's little lady-love; perhaps this woman is a relative, and the girl has gone to live with her. I must find out about that." Then, with this thought in view, he added, aloud; "Introduce me, will you, Merrill?"

His host glanced roguishly at him, and a smile of amusement hovered about his lips as he replied:

"Certainly, if you wish, but I give you fair warning that she is a dangerous party, and especially so to widowers—there are a dozen, more or less, who have already had their wings thoroughly singed."

Mr. Palmer smiled with an air of calm superiority.

"Well, Merrill, I admit that she is as fine-looking a woman as I have ever seen," he said, "but I believe that I am proof against the blandishments of the fair sex upon principle; for," more gravely, "I have never had any desire to change my condition since I lost my wife. My reason for requesting the introduction was, I thought Mrs. Montague might be able to give me some information regarding another lady of the same name."

"All right; an introduction you shall have; but pray take heed to my warning, all the same, and look out for yourself," was the laughing rejoinder. "Ah," as he bowed graciously to the lady approaching them, "we are very glad to be favored with your presence this evening, and now allow me to present a friend; Mrs. Montague, Mr. Palmer."

The brilliant woman shot one sweeping glance out of her expressive eyes at the gentleman and then extended her faultlessly gloved hand to him in cordial greeting.

"I am very glad to make Mr. Palmer's acquaintance," she said, graciously, "although," she added, with a charming smile, "I cannot look upon him quite as a stranger, for I have friends who frequently speak of him, and in a way that has made one wish to know him personally."

Mr. Palmer flushed slightly as he bowed in acknowledgment of such high praise, and remarked that he felt himself greatly honored.

Mrs. Montague then adroitly changed the tenor of the conversation, and kept him chatting some time, before he thought of Mona again, and when he did, he hardly knew how to broach the subject to his companion.

"Have you resided long in New York, Mrs. Montague?" he inquired, after a slight pause in their conversation.

"Only about six months, but, Mr. Palmer, during that time, I have found your city a most delightful one, socially," the lady returned.

"I understand that Mrs. Montague is quite a favorite in society, which accounts, in a measure, perhaps, for her own enjoyment of its people," the gentleman gallantly responded.

Mrs. Montague flushed slightly and lowered her white lids, modestly, for an instant, and Mr. Palmer continued:

"Allow me to ask, Mrs. Montague, if you ever met Mr. Walter Dinsmore?"

"Dinsmore—Dinsmore," repeated his fair companion, with a puzzled expression; "it seems as if I have heard the name, and yet—I am quite sure that I have met no such person since my residence in New York. Let me see," she added, as if suddenly remembering something—"did I not read in the papers, a short time ago, of the death of the gentleman—he was quite a prominent citizen, was he not?"

"Yes, and much respected; he died suddenly, leaving a large fortune. The reason I inquired if you knew him," Mr. Palmer explained, "was because he left a niece whose name is the same as yours, and I thought possibly you might be a relative of the family. Miss Mona Montague is the young lady's name."

"Mona Montague?" repeated Mrs. Montague, burying her face for an instant in the bouquet she carried as if to inhale its perfume. "No, I think not—I have no relatives in New York except a nephew, who is the same as a son to me. We came to your city entire strangers to every one. But how old is this Miss Montague?"

"About eighteen years of age, I believe. She was said to be a very beautiful girl, and every one supposed her to be Mr. Dinsmore's heiress; but it seems that he had a wife living, although he was supposed to be a widower—who claimed everything, and thus Miss Montague was rendered homeless and penniless. She has certainly disappeared from the circle in which she hitherto mingled."

"How exceedingly unfortunate!" murmured Mr. Palmer's fair listener, with apparent sympathy.

"Very," said the gentleman; "and as we—I feel deeply interested in her, I hoped, when I heard your name, that you might prove to be a relative, and could give me some information regarding her."