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 coupe, 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 coupe.

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 coupe 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 negligee 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 coupe 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.