"I fear it is too late for that now. He is so thoroughly infatuated and has committed himself so far, I doubt the wisdom of seeking to undeceive him," Ray responded, with a sigh. "What powers of fascination that woman has!" he exclaimed, with some excitement. "She charms every one, young and old. I myself experienced something of it until you opened my eyes to her real character."

"Such women are capable of doing a great deal of harm. Oh, Ray, I believe that society ruins a great many people. Perhaps it was well that my career in it was so suddenly terminated," Mona remarked, gravely.

Ray smiled fondly down upon her.

"I do not believe it could ever have harmed you very much," he said, tenderly; "but I believe very many young people are unfitted for the higher duties of life where they give themselves up to society to such an extent as they do here in New York; it is such a shallow, unreal kind of life. We will be social—you and I, Mona, when we make a home for ourselves; we will be truly hospitable and entertain our friends for the good that we can get and give, but not merely for the sake of show and of being 'in the swim.'"

The smile and look which concluded these observations brought the quick blood to the cheeks of the fair girl, and made another pair of eyes, which were peering at them through the palms and ferns, flash with malicious anger and jealousy.

"I have so few friends now, Ray, I fear we shall not have many to entertain," Mona replied, a little sadly.

"I do not believe you know how many you really have, dear. You disappeared from social life so suddenly, leaving everybody in the dark regarding your whereabouts, that very few had an opportunity to prove their friendship," Ray said, soothingly. "However," he added, his fine lips curling a trifle, "we shall know how to treat those who have met and ignored you. But have you heard anything from Mr. Corbin since I saw you last?"

"No, and I fear that I shall not," Mona replied, with a sigh. "I do not see any possible way by which he can prove my identity. As you know, I have not a single item of reliable evidence in my possession, although I firmly believe that such evidence exists, and is at this moment in Mrs. Montague's keeping."

She then related how her suspicions had been freshly aroused by the conversation of that morning, and Ray was considerably excited over the matter.

"Why did you not tell me before that Louis Hamblin made himself obnoxious to you at Hazeldean?" he questioned, flushing with indignation, for Mona had also told him of her interview with the young man in the library, in connection with the story of Mrs. Montague's more recent proposal to her.

"Because I believed that I had myself thoroughly extinguished him," Mona answered, smiling; "and besides," she continued, with a modest blush, "I believe that no true, considerate woman will ever mention her rejection of a suitor to a third party, if she can avoid doing so."

Ray gave her an admiring glance.

"I wish there were more women in the world of the same mind," he said. "But mind, dear, I will not have you annoyed about the matter further. If, after what you have told Mrs. Montague to-day, young Hamblin should presume to renew the subject again, you are to tell me and I will deal with him as he deserves. It certainly is rather suspicious her wanting you to become his wife. Why, it is in everybody's mouth that she has been trying for months to make a match between him and Kitty McKenzie," he concluded, thoughtfully.

"Kitty McKenzie is far too good a girl for such a fate; but I am afraid she is really quite fond of him," said Mona, with a regretful sigh. "But shall you come up to Forty-ninth street this afternoon, Ray?"

"I suppose I must, or people will talk," he replied, dejectedly. "If my father is determined to marry the woman it will create gossip, I suppose, if I appear to discountenance it; so all that remains for me to do is to put the best possible face upon the matter and treat my future step-mother with becoming deference."

"What do you suppose she will say when she learns the truth about us?" Mona inquired, with an amused smile. "I imagine there will be something of a breeze about my ears, for she informed me this morning that I need have no hopes or aspirations regarding you upon the strength of any attention that you bestowed upon me at Hazeldean, for—you were already engaged," and a little ripple of merry laughter concluded the sentence.

Ray smiled, delighted to see the sunshine upon his dear one's face, and to hear that musical sound. Yet he remarked, with some sternness:

"I think she is overstepping her jurisdiction to meddle in your affairs to such an extent. But here comes our lunch," he interposed, as the waiter appeared, bearing a well laden tray of tempting viands.

"Then let us drop all unpleasant topics, and give ourselves up to the enjoyment of it," said Mona, looking up brightly. "A light heart and a mind at ease greatly aid digestion, you know."

She would not allow him to refer to anything of a disagreeable nature after that, but strove, in her bright, sweet way, to banish the cloud from his face, and succeeded so well that before their meal was ended they had both apparently forgotten Louis Hamblin and his aunt, and the unsuitable engagement about to be announced, and were only conscious that they were there together, and all in all to each other.

But time was flying, and Mona knew that she must get back to assist Mrs. Montague with her toilet for the high-tea.

"It was very nice of you, Ray, to bring me here for this delightful lunch," she said, as they arose from the table, with a regretful sigh that they must separate, and began to draw on her gloves.

"We shall take all our lunches together before long, I hope, my darling," he whispered, fondly; "half the stipulated time is gone, Mona, and I shall certainly claim you at the end of another six weeks."

Mona flushed, but she did not reply, and her heart grew heavy, for she knew she should not be willing to become Ray's wife until she could prove the circumstances of her birth.

She longed to tell him how she felt about it—she longed to know how he would feel toward her if they should discover that any stain rested upon her.

But she dare not broach the subject—a feeling of shame and humiliation kept her silent, and she resolved to wait and hope until the six weeks should pass.

They went out together, but still followed by that pair of malignant eyes, which had, however, been cautiously veiled, as was also the face in which they were set.

Ray walked with his betrothed to a corner, where he helped her aboard a car, and then returned to his store.

Later, on that same day, a gay company of gentlemen and ladies filled Mrs. Montague's spacious and elegant rooms, where she, in her elaborate and becoming costume, entertained in her most charming manner.

Mr. Palmer had come very early and secured a private interview, previous to the arrival of the other guests, and it was noticeable that, as the lady received, a new and magnificent solitaire gleamed upon the third finger of her left hand.

People surmised, very generally, what this meant, even before it was whispered throughout the rooms that the engagement of Mr. Palmer and the beautiful widow was formally announced. It was not very much of a surprise, either, as such an event had been predicted for some time.

Ray did not arrive until late, for he had little heart for the gay scene, and less sympathy in its object. But for his respect and love for his father, he would not have set foot in the house at all.

"Gentlemen's dressing-room on the left of the hall above," said the polite colored man, who attended the door, and Ray slowly mounted the stairs, hoping that he might catch a glimpse, if not secure an opportunity for a word with Mona.

But there was no such treat in store for him, for she was at that moment assisting Mary, who had met with a mishap in running up stairs, having stepped upon her dress and torn it badly.

Ray found the room indicated, which proved to be Mrs. Montague's boudoir, deposited his hat, gloves, and cane where he could conveniently get them again—for he did not intend to remain long—and then descended to the drawing-room.

He made his way at once to where Mrs. Montague was standing with her captive beside her, for he desired to get through with the disagreeable duty of offering congratulations, with all possible dispatch.

Poor Mr. Palmer! Ray pitied him, in spite of his aversion to the engagement, for he looked heated and flushed, and somewhat sheepish as his son approached, although he tried to smile and look happy, as if he enjoyed the glitter and show and confusion reigning all about him.

Ray politely shook hands with his hostess, making some general remark upon the occasion and the brilliant assembly, as he did so.

"And—I hope I am to have your congratulations." Mrs. Montague archly remarked, as she glanced from him to his father.

"You certainly can have no doubt that I sincerely hope the arrangement may be for your mutual happiness," the young man gravely replied, as he bowed before them both.

"Then show yourself a dutiful son by drinking a cup of tea with me," laughingly returned the lady, as she slipped her white hand within his arm, and led him toward the great silver urn, where several charming "buds" were dispensing the fragrant beverage to the numerous guests.

Ray had no alternative, and he well knew that the wily widow had adroitly taken this way to make it appear to her guests that the son heartily approved his father's choice.

She possessed infinite tact, and chatted away in the most brilliant manner, making him wait upon her so assiduously that Ray was sure, from the looks of those about them, that every one was admiring his devotion(?) to his future step-mother.

She released him at last, however, and returned to her position beside his father, and watching his opportunity he stole unobserved from the room, and up stairs, intending to get away from the house as soon as possible.

Reaching Mrs. Montague's boudoir, he walked to the bay-window, and looked out upon the street. He was nervous and excited, and wished to regain his accustomed composure before going down stairs again.

He stood there a moment absorbed in unpleasant reflections, then turned to get his coat and hat.

As he did so, one of his feet caught in the heavy damask draperies, and in trying to disengage it, something crackled sharply beneath it, and he stooped to ascertain what it was.

Sweeping aside the heavy curtains, he saw a long, narrow document lying upon the floor beneath its folds.

He picked it up, and saw that it was a piece of parchment with something apparently printed upon it.

Not supposing it to be anything of importance, he mechanically unfolded it and began to read.

"Why, it is a marriage certificate!" he exclaimed, in surprise, under his breath.

Not caring to read the whole form, he simply glanced at the places where the names of the contracting parties were written, and instantly a mighty shock seemed to shake him from head to foot.

"Ha! what can this mean?" he exclaimed, in a breathless voice.

His face grew deathly pale. A blur came before his eyes. He rubbed them to dispel it, and looked again.

"It cannot be possible!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, and actually panting as if he had been running hard. "I cannot believe my sight, and yet it is here in black and white! and Mona—Mona, my darling! the mystery will be solved, and you will be righted at last."

The certificate, as will be readily surmised, was the very one which Mrs. Montague had examined the previous evening.

When Mona had knocked upon the door, it will be remembered that she was greatly startled and had upset the table. The accident had caused the certificate to be thrown upon the floor, with the other things, and by some means it was pushed beneath the heavy damask curtain and had escaped Mrs. Montague's eye and memory, when she hastily gathered up the scattered treasures and rearranged them in the secret compartment of the table.

Thus it had come into Ray's possession just at a time when it was most needed and desired.

Regaining his composure somewhat, he read it carefully through from beginning to end.

"How could it have come to be in such a strange place, and to fall into my hands?" he said, the look of wonder still on his face. "She—that woman must have had it in her possession, even as Mona suspected, and by some mistake or oversight dropped and forgot it. Shall I tell her I have found it? Shall I return it and then demand it from her?" he questioned, his innate sense of honor recoiling from everything that seemed dishonorable. "No," he continued, sternly, "it is not hers—she has no right whatever to it; it belongs to Mona alone, for it is the proof of her birthright. I will take it directly to Mr. Corbin, and I will not even tell Mona until I have first confided in him."

With a resolute purpose written on his fine face, Ray carefully put the document away in an inner pocket; then donning his coat and hat, quietly left the house.

The last postal delivery of that same evening brought to Mrs. Richmond Montague the following anonymous letter:

"MADAME:—The girl in your employ, who calls herself Ruth Richards, is not what she pretends to be. Her true name is Mona Montague, and she is compromising herself by secret meetings with a gentleman in high life. She lunched this morning at the Hoffman House Cafe with Mr. Raymond Palmer, the son of a worthy gentleman whom you intend to marry. You perhaps will best know whether she has any hidden purpose in figuring as a seamstress, and under the name of Ruth Richards, in your house."

Unfortunately for our young lovers, Miss Josephine Holt had also been taking an early lunch in the Hoffman House Cafe that morning, and had seen Ray and Mona the moment they had entered.

Ever since she had discovered Mona at Hazeldean she had been trying to think of some way by which she could separate them, and now, knowing that Mrs. Montague was bent upon marrying Mr. Palmer, and feeling sure that there was some secret which Mona wished to preserve by becoming a seamstress in the woman's house under an assumed name, she believed she could the best achieve her purpose by disclosing her identity and setting Mrs. Montague against her. How well she succeeded will be seen later on.



CHAPTER VII.

MONA MAKES A SURPRISING DISCOVERY.

It was now the third week in April, and the season was unusually early. The grass had become quite green, the trees were putting forth their leaves, and the weather was very warm for the time of the year.

On the morning after the high-tea and the announcement of the engagement, Mrs. Montague sought Mona and informed her that a party of friends had arranged for a pleasure trip through the South and down the Mississippi, and asked her if she would accompany her, since Louis had business to attend to, and could not act as her escort.

Mona did not exactly like to go, but there was really no good reason why she should refuse; the rush of sewing was nearly over, and if she were left behind, she would have to be idle the greater portion of the time; besides, she had worked very steadily, and she knew that she needed rest and relaxation.

She inquired how long Mrs. Montague intended to be gone, and the lady replied that she expected to return within two weeks.

"Of course you can please yourself about the matter, Ruth," she remarked. "I suppose I could take Mary, but she is not companionable—she would not appreciate the journey, and I really wish you would go. I should regard it as quite a favor," the woman concluded, appealingly.

If Mona had been more observing, she might have seen that she was being closely watched, and that her answer was anxiously awaited. Mona considered the subject a few moments before replying. Her greatest objection was leaving Ray for so long—two weeks would seem almost interminable without seeing him.

But, on the other hand, perhaps while in such close companionship with Mrs. Montague as there would have to be on such a journey, something might be dropped about her former life which would enlighten her regarding what she was so eager to ascertain. It would be a delightful trip, too, and Mona knew that she should enjoy seeing the country, as she had never been South.

"When do you start?" she inquired, before committing herself.

"I want to get off in the evening express," Mrs. Montague returned, watching every expression of the young girl's face.

"In this evening's express?" asked Mona, in surprise.

"Yes. It is short notice, I know," the woman said, smiling; "but I, myself, only knew of the plan yesterday, and, as you know, I was too busy to make any arrangements for it. Will you go, Ruth? We have nothing to do but to pack our trunks."

"I suppose there is no reason why I should not," the young girl returned, musingly, while she told herself that she could send a note to Ray, informing him of her intention. She was not quite sure that he would approve of it, and she wished that she could have known of it the previous day, so that she could have consulted him.

"That is nice of you," Mrs. Montague quickly responded, and assuming that her remark was intended as an assent to the trip; "and now we must at once go about our preparations. How long will it take you to pack?"

"Not long," Mona answered; "I have only my dresses to fold, and my toilet articles to gather up. I have not really unpacked since I came here," she said, smiling; "for I have needed so few things."

"Well, then, get yourself ready; then you may come to help me," Mrs. Montague said, as she arose to go to her own room, and breathing a sigh of relief that this vital point had been gained with so little trouble.

Mona was as expeditious as possible, but, somehow, now that she had given her consent to go, her heart grew unaccountably heavy, and she began to feel a deep aversion to leaving New York.

She wrote a hasty note to Ray, telling him of the intended journey, and how she regretted not being able to consult him, but could not, under the circumstances. She also wrote, as she did not know the route they were to take, she could not tell him where to address her, but would write to him again when she learned where they were to be.

Then she packed what she thought she would need to take with her, after which she went to assist Mrs. Montague. She found that she had been very expeditious, for she had one trunk already packed and locked, ready to be strapped, and was busily engaged filling another.

Their arrangements were all made and they were ready to start by the time dinner was served, and this meal Mrs. Montague insisted they should eat together, as they must leave immediately afterward.

She was very chatty and agreeable, treating Mona more as an equal than she had ever done before. She seemed in excellent spirits, and talked so gayly and enthusiastically about the trip that the young girl really began to anticipate it with considerable pleasure.

Mary and the cook were to have a holiday during their absence; the house was to be closed, and the coachman alone would remain about the premises to look after the horses and see that nothing happened to the place.

At seven o'clock they left the house, and an hour later were seated in a luxurious Wagner, and rolling rapidly Southward.

They arrived in St. Louis on the morning of the second day, and drove directly to the Southern Hotel, where Mrs. Montague said they would remain for a day or two, to rest, and where the friends who were going down the Mississippi to New Orleans with them would join them.

The following morning Mrs. Montague dressed herself with great care, and told Mona that she was going out to make some calls, adding that she might amuse herself as she chose, for there was nothing to be done, and she might get lonely to remain alone in the hotel.

The young girl resolved to improve the opportunity and look about the city a little on her own account.

She donned her hat and jacket, and running down to the street, hailed the first car that came along, with the intention of riding as far as it would take her.

She changed her purpose, however, as the car was about passing a street leading down to the great bridge across the Mississippi.

She had heard and read a great deal about the grand structure, and she determined to walk across and see how it would compare with the wonderful Brooklyn Bridge.

She was feeling very well, the morning was bright, and she enjoyed her walk immensely. By the time she returned her cheeks were like wild roses, and her whole face glowing from exercise.

She was a little weary, however, and glad to get seated again in a car going back toward her hotel.

The car had proceeded only about half a block, however, when it stopped again, and two people, a man and a woman, stepped aboard, and seated themselves next to her.

They seemed to be absorbed in earnest conversation, and did not appear to notice any one about them.

The woman was an elderly person, rather fine looking, with a good figure, and an erect, graceful bearing. Her hair was almost white, and there were deep wrinkles in her forehead, at the corners of her eyes, and about her mouth, although they were somewhat concealed, or softened, by the thickly spotted black lace veil which she wore; but on the whole she was an agreeable looking person, and her manner was full of energy and vitality.

Her companion was a rather rough-appearing personage and dressed like a Western farmer or miner, rather coarsely handsome, and with an easy, off-hand manner that was quite attractive, and he might have been thirty or thirty-five years of age.

"What a dark skin—what black hair and beard, with blue eyes!" was Mona's mental comment, as she observed this peculiarity about him. He also had very white teeth, which contrasted strikingly with the intense blackness of his mustache and beard.

He appeared to be quite disturbed about something, and talked to his companion rapidly and excitedly, but in low tones.

"You were very imprudent to try to dispose of so many at one place," Mona overheard his companion say, in reply to some observation which he had previously made, and then a great shock went tingling through all her nerves as her glance fell upon the dress which the woman wore.

It was a fine, heavy ladies' cloth, of a delicate shade of gray—just the color, Mona was confident, of that tiny piece of goods which Ray had shown her at Hazeldean, and which had been torn from the dress of the woman who had trapped him into Doctor Wesselhoff's residence, and stolen his diamonds.

She was very much excited for a few moments, and her heart beat with rapid throbs.

Could it be possible that this woman had been concerned in that robbery?

That woman had had red hair, and according to Ray's description, was much younger; but she might possibly be the other one, who had made arrangements with the physician for Ray's treatment. At all events, Mona was impressed that she had found the dress in which the fascinating Mrs. Vanderbeck had figured so conspicuously.

Her face flushed, her fingers tingled with the rapid coursing of her blood, and she felt as if she could hardly wait until the woman should rise, so that she might look for a place that had been mended in the skirt of her dress.

She resolved that she would ride as long as they remained in the car, and when they left it, she would follow them to ascertain their stopping place.

She could not catch anything more that they said, although she strained her ears to do so.

Those few words which she had overheard had also aroused her suspicions—"you were very imprudent to try to dispose of so many in one place," the woman had said, and Mona believed she had referred to diamonds; her vivid imagination pictured these people as belonging to the gang of robbers who had been concerned in the Palmer robbery, and now that the excitement attending it had somewhat subsided, they had doubtless come to St. Louis to dispose of their booty; while it was the strangest thing in the world, she thought, that she should have happened to run across them in the way she had.

They were drawing very near the Southern Hotel, where Mona and Mrs. Montague were stopping; but the excited girl resolved that she would not get out—she would ride hours rather than lose sight of these two strangers, and the chance to ascertain if that gray cloth dress was mended—"on the back of the skirt, near the right side, among the heavy folds." Ray had told her that was where the tear was.

But what if she should find it there? What should she do about the matter? were questions which arose at this point to trouble her. What could she, a weak girl, do to cause the arrest of the thieves? how was she to prove them guilty?

At that moment the man signaled the conductor to stop the car, and Mona's heart leaped into her throat, for they were exactly opposite her own hotel.

The couple arose to leave the car, and Mona slowly followed them.

As the woman was about to step to the ground she gathered up her skirts with her right hand, to prevent them from sweeping the steps of the car, and Mona looked with eager eyes, but she could detect no mended rent.

She kept a little behind them as they crossed the sidewalk and made straight for the entrance of the hotel, when, as they were mounting the steps, the woman suddenly tripped and almost fell.

In the act, her skirts were drawn closely about her, and Mona distinctly saw a place, where the plaits or folds were laid deeply over one another, that had been mended, and not nicely, either, but hastily sewed together on the wrong side. It would hardly have been noticed, however, unless one had been looking for it as Mona was, because it lay so deeply in among the folds.

The couple entered the hotel, and both gave Mona a quick, sharp glance as she followed; but she quietly passed them with averted eyes, and went into a reception-room on the left of the hall.

"Go and register, Jake, and I will wait here for you," Mona heard the woman say, and the man immediately disappeared within the clerk's office opposite, while his companion walked slowly back and forth in the hall.

Presently the man rejoined her, remarking:

"It's all right; they had a room next yours which they could give me. Come," and both passed directly up stairs.

Mona waited a few minutes, to be sure they were well out of the way, then she quietly slipped across the hall to the office.

"Will you allow me to look at the register?" she asked of the gentlemanly clerk.

"Certainly," and with a bow and smile he placed it conveniently for her.

She thanked him, and glanced eagerly at the last name written on the page.

"J.R. Walton, Sydney, Australia," she read, in a coarse, irregular hand, as if the person writing it had been unaccustomed to the use of the pen.

Running her eye up the page, Mona also read, as if the name had been signed earlier in the day:

"Mrs. J.M. Walton, Brownsville, Mo."

"It would appear," mused Mona, as she left the office, "as if they are mother and son—that he had just returned from far Australia, and she had come here to meet him. But—I don't believe it! Walton—Walton! Where have I heard that name before?"

She could not place it, but she was so sure that these people were in some way connected with the Palmer robbery, she was determined to make an effort to establish the fact, and immediately leaving the hotel again, she sought the nearest telegraph office, and sent the following message to Ray:

"Send immediately piece of the ladies' cloth torn from dress."

This done she retraced her steps, and went directly up to her own room.

She found that Mrs. Montague had returned from making her calls, and was dressing for dinner.

She seemed a little disturbed about something, and finally it came out that the trip down the Mississippi would have to be delayed for a day or two longer than she had anticipated, as one of her friends was not quite well enough to start immediately.

Mona was very glad to learn this, for she was sure that she should hear from Ray and receive the piece of dress goods; her only fear was that the Waltons might not remain at the hotel long enough for her to find an opportunity to fit the piece into the rent, to ascertain if it belonged there.

The earnestly desired letter reached her the next evening. Ray had been very expeditious. Receiving Mona's dispatch just before the southward mail closed, he had hastily inclosed the piece of cloth, with a few words, in an envelope, and so there was no delay.

She was certain, as she examined it, that it was exactly the same color as the dress she had seen the day before, and reasonably sure regarding the texture; but the great question now to be answered was: Would it fit the rent?

"Now I must find the dress, if possible, when the woman is wearing something else," Mona mused, with a troubled face, and beginning to think she had undertaken a matter too difficult to be carried out. "Perhaps she has no other dress here; how, then, am I going to prove my suspicion true, or otherwise?"

She knew that she could go to the authorities, tell her story, and have the woman and dress forcibly examined; but she could not bear to do anything that would make herself conspicuous, and it would be very disagreeable to carry the affair so far and then find she had made a lamentable mistake.

"If Ray were only here he would know what to do," she murmured, "but he isn't, and I must do the best I can without him. I must find out where the woman rooms. I must examine that dress!"

Fortune favored her in an unexpected way the very next morning.

The chambermaid who had charge of the floor on which their rooms were located, came, as usual, to put them in order, but with a badly swollen face, around which she had bound a handkerchief.

"Are you sick?" Mona asked, in a tone of sympathy, for the girl's heavy eyes and languid manner appealed very strongly to her kind heart.

"I have a toothache, miss," the girl said, with a heavy sigh. "I never slept a wink last night, it pained me so."

"I am very sorry, and of course you cannot feel much like work to-day, if you had no sleep," Mona said, pityingly.

"Indeed I don't—I can hardly hold my head up; but the work's got to be done all the same," was the weary reply.

"Cannot you get some one to substitute for you while you have your tooth taken out and get a little rest?" Mona kindly inquired.

"No, miss; the girls are all busy—they have their own work to do, and I shall have to bear it as best I can."

"Then let me help you," Mona said, a sudden thought setting all her pulses bounding.

Perhaps she might come across that dress!

"You, miss!" the girl cried, in unfeigned astonishment. "A young lady like you help to make beds in a hotel where you are a guest!"

Mona laughed.

"I have often made beds, and—I am not regarded as a 'young lady' just now; I am only a kind of waiting-maid to the lady with whom I am traveling," she explained, thinking she might the more easily gain her point if the girl was led to think the difference in their positions was not as great as she had imagined. "Come now," she added, "I am going to help you, for I know you are not able to do all this work yourself," and she immediately began to assist in putting her own chamber to rights.

They went from room to room, Mona chatting pleasantly and trying to take the girl's mind from her pain; but she saw that it was almost more than she could do to keep about her work.

Finally she made her sit down and let her work alone.

"How many rooms are there yet to be cared for?" she asked, as she began to spread up the bed where they were.

"Only four more, miss—just what are left in this hall," said the girl, as her head fell wearily back against the high rocker which Mona had insisted upon her taking.

Mona went on with the work she had volunteered to perform, and when she returned to look at the girl again, she found that she was sleeping heavily.

"Exhausted nature has asserted itself, and I will let her rest," the young girl murmured; "there can be no possible harm in my doing this work for her, although I suppose it would not be thought just the thing for a stranger to have access to all these rooms."

She put everything there as it should be, then she went out, softly closing the door after her, that no one might see the girl sleeping.

She proceeded to do the four remaining apartments without finding what she sought until she came to the very last one.

As she entered it she picked up a card that had been dropped upon the floor, and a joyful thrill ran through her as she read the name, "Mrs. J.M. Walton."

She knew, then, that she had found the room occupied by the woman who had worn the gray dress.

Would she find the garment?

A trunk stood in one corner of the room, and her eyes rested covetously upon this. Then she went to the wardrobe and swung the door open.

Joy! the robe she sought was hanging on a peg within!

With trembling hands she sought for the rent which she had seen the day but one before.

She found it, and with fluctuating color and a rapidly beating heart, she took hold of the knot of the silk, which had been used to mend it, and deliberately pulled it out, when the ragged edges fell apart, revealing a triangular-shaped rent.

Mona drew her purse from her pocket, found the precious piece of cloth that Ray had sent to her, and laid it over the hole in the skirt.

It fitted perfectly into the tear, and she knew that the dress which the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck had worn, when she stole the Palmer diamonds, was found.

But the woman!

Mona was puzzled, for surely the woman whom she had seen wearing the dress was much older than the one whom Ray had described to her. She was wrinkled and gray; and then—the name! But stay! All at once light broke in upon her. Walton had been the name of the person who had so cleverly deceived Dr. Wesselhoff. She had been old and wrinkled, and now, without doubt, she had come to St. Louis to dispose of her share of the stolen diamonds, and had worn the other woman's dress, thinking, perhaps, it would be safe to do so, and would not be recognized under such different circumstances.

"But what shall I do?" seemed now to be the burden of her thought. At first she felt impelled to telegraph Ray to come and attend to the matter; then she feared the man and woman would both disappear before he could arrive, and she felt that some immediate action should be taken.

"I believe my best way will be to go directly to a detective, and tell him my story; he will know what ought to be done, and I can leave the matter in his hands," was her final conclusion.

She sped to her own room, secured a needleful of silk, then hastened back to Mrs. Walton's room and sewed the rent in the dress together once more, taking care not to fray the edges, lest the piece she had should not fit when it was examined again.



CHAPTER VIII.

MR. RIDER BECOMES ACTIVE AGAIN.

After hanging the dress again in its place, Mona quickly finished her work in the room, then went back to the girl whom she had left sleeping in one of the adjoining chambers, and awoke her.

She had slept nearly an hour, and, though Mona knew that she needed many hours more of rest, she was sure that she would be the better for what she had secured.

"You are very good, miss," she said, gratefully; "the pain is all gone from my tooth, and I feel ever so much better."

"Your sleep has quieted your nerves; but I advise you to see a dentist and have the tooth attended to," Mona returned; then hastened away to her room, where she dressed herself for the street and went out.

Mrs. Montague had been out for a long time driving with some friends.

Mona inquired of an elderly, respectable policeman, whom she found standing upon a corner, where she should go to find a detective.

He directed her to the headquarters of the force, although he looked surprised at the question coming from such a source, and she repaired thither at once.

As she entered the office, a quiet-looking man, who was the only occupant at that time, arose and came forward, bowing respectfully; but he also appeared astonished to see a young and beautiful girl in such a place.

"I wish to see a detective," said Mona, flushing hotly beneath the man's curious glance.

"The men connected with this office are all out just at this moment, miss. I am a stranger, and only sitting here for a half-hour or so, just to oblige the officer in charge," the man courteously replied.

"I am very sorry," said the young girl, with a sigh, "for I have come upon business which ought to be attended to immediately."

"I am a detective, miss, although I do not belong here. I'm an officer from New York; but if you see fit to tell me your business, perhaps I might advise you," said the officer, kindly, for he saw that she was greatly troubled.

"You are from New York!" Mona exclaimed, eagerly; "then perhaps it will be better for me to tell you, rather than a St. Louis detective; for the robbery happened in New York."

The detective's eyes flashed with sudden interest at this.

"Ah!" was all he said, however, and this very quietly.

"Yes, it was a diamond robbery. A dress worn by one of the persons connected with it was torn; a small piece was entirely cut out of it. I have found the dress; I have fitted the piece into the rent, and now I want the woman who owns it to be arrested and examined," Mona explained, in low, excited tones, but very comprehensively.

"Ah!" said the detective again, in the same quiet tone; "you have reference to the Palmer robbery."

Mona lifted a pair of very astonished eyes to his face.

"Yes," she responded, breathlessly; "but how did you know?"

"Because I am looking after that case. I am in St. Louis upon that very business," replied the man, with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Are you Detective Rider?" questioned the young girl, wonderingly, and trembling with excitement.

Her companion smiled.

"What do you know about Detective Rider?" he inquired. Then, as she flushed and seemed somewhat embarrassed, he continued: "And who are you, if you please?"

"I am—I am acquainted with Raymond Palmer," Mona answered, evasively; "he has told me about the robbery and—"

"Ah! yes. I understand," interposed the quick-witted officer, as he comprehended the situation. "But sit down and tell me the whole story as briefly as possible, and I can then judge what will be best to do."

He moved a chair forward for her, then sat down himself, where he could watch her closely, as she talked, and Mona related all that we already know regarding the two people whom she had seen upon the street-car, together with all that followed in connection with the discovery of the rent in the gray cloth dress, the sending for the fragment that Ray had preserved, and which had fitted so exactly into the tear.

The detective listened with the closest attention, his small, keen eyes alone betraying the intense interest which her recital excited.

When she had concluded, he drew forth a set of tablets and made notes of several items, after which he said:

"Now, Miss —— What shall I call you? Whom shall I ask for at the hotel, if I should wish to see you again upon this business?"

"Miss Richards. I am traveling with a Mrs. Montague, of New York," Mona replied.

"Well, then, Miss Richards, you go back to your hotel, and of course conduct yourself as if you had nothing unusual on your mind; but hold yourself in readiness to produce that important bit of cloth, if I should call upon you to do so within the next few hours. By the way," he added, with sudden thought, "if you have it with you, I might as well take a look at it."

Mona took the paper containing it from her purse and gave it to him.

"You are sure this matches the dress?" he asked, examining it closely. "We don't want to make any awkward mistakes, you know."

"It is identical. I believe that every thread in this piece can be matched by a corresponding thread in the garment," the fair girl asserted, so positively that he seemed to be entirely satisfied.

He returned the piece to her and then arose in a brisk, business-like way, which told that he was ready for action.

Mona also rose, and, bidding him a quiet good-day, went quickly out of the office, and hastened back to the hotel.

* * * * *

In order to understand more fully some of the incidents related, we shall have to go back a few days.

It was a bright, clear morning when a rather rough-looking, yet not unattractive person, entered a large jewelry establishment located on one of the principal streets of St. Louis.

He might have been thirty-five years of age, for there was a sprinkling of silver among his coarse, intensely black hair, which he wore quite long, and also in his huge mustache and beard. His face was bronzed from exposure; there were crow's feet about his eyes, and two deep wrinkles between his brows, and his general appearance indicated that he had seen a good deal of the rough side of life.

He wore a coarse though substantial suit of clothes, which hung rather loosely upon him; a gray flannel shirt with a turn-over collar, which was fastened at the throat by a flashy necktie, rather carelessly knotted; a red cotton handkerchief was just visible in one of his pockets; there were coarse, clumsy boots on his feet, and he wore a wide-brimmed, slouch hat.

He inquired of the clerk, who came forward to wait upon him, if he could see the "boss of the consarn," as he had a little private business to transact with him.

The clerk smiled slightly at his broad vernacular, as he replied that he would speak to the proprietor, and presently an elderly gentleman appeared from an inner office, and inquired the nature of the man's business.

"I'm a miner," he said. "I'm just home from Australia, where I've been huntin' diamonds for the last ten years. I've made a pretty good haul, and sold most of 'em in London on my way home. I had a few dandy ones cut there, though, to bring back to my gal; but—but—well, to tell the plain truth," he said, with some confusion, "she's gone back on me; she couldn't wait for me, so married another fellar; and now I want to sell the stones. D'ye want to buy?"

There was something rather attractive, as well as amusing, in the man's frankness, and the merchant smiled, as he kindly remarked that he would examine the stones.

The miner thereupon pulled out a small leather bag from one of the pockets of his trousers, unwound the strong thong at its throat, and rattled out upon the counter several loose glittering diamonds of various sizes.

The merchant could hardly repress a cry of astonishment, for they were remarkable for their purity and brilliancy, while there were two among the collection of unusual size.

He examined them critically, and took plenty of time about it, while the miner leaned indifferently against the counter, his hands in his pockets, and gazed absently out of the window.

"What do you value these stones at?" the merchant finally inquired, as he removed the glass from his eye and turned to the man.

"Wall, I don't suppose it would make much difference what my price might be," he drawled; "I know they're about as good ones as anybody would care to see, and you know about what you'd be willin' to give."

"Yes; but I would like to know what value you put upon them before I make an offer," responded Mr. Cohen, shrewdly.

"Wall, before I found out about the gal, I wouldn't a' sold 'em at any price," was the rather gloomy response, "fur I'd promised 'em to her, ye know; but now—so's I get what's reasonable, I don't care much what becomes on 'em. What'll ye give? I'll trust to yer honor in the matter."

The jeweler had been watching the man closely while he was speaking, although he appeared to be thinking deeply of the purchase of the gems.

"I—do not think that I am prepared to set a price on them just at this moment," he at length thoughtfully remarked. "As far as I can judge, they are very fine stones and well cut; still, I am not an expert, although a dealer in such things, and I should like to submit them to one before making you an offer."

"All right," was the hearty and unhesitating reply, "that's fair, and I'm agreeable. Bring on your expert."

"Are you going to be in the city long?" asked the merchant.

"Wall, no; I didn't calkerlate on staying any longer'n I could turn the stones into money," the man said. "My old mother lives up to Brownsville, and I thought of goin' up to make her a little visit—han't seen her fur ten years. Then I'm going back to the mines, since I han't no reason to hang around these parts now," with a bitter emphasis on the last word.

"This is Tuesday," said Mr. Cohen, reflectively; "the expert to whom I wish to subject the stones is out of town, but will be here to-morrow evening; suppose you come in again on Thursday morning."

"All right," responded the miner, as he began to gather up his glittering pebbles, though there was a look of disappointment in his eyes. "I'd ruther have got rid of 'em, fur they're kind o' ticklish things to be carrying about. Wonder if I couldn't leave 'em in your safe till Thursday?"

"Certainly, if you are willing to trust them with me," said Mr. Cohen, looking rather surprised at the man's confidence in him: "still you would have to do so on your own responsibility. I should not be willing to be held accountable for them in case of a robbery."

"Wall, then, perhaps I'd better take them along," the miner returned, as he tied the mouth of his leather pouch, and shoved it into one of his pockets.

Then drawing forth a plug of tobacco from another, he bit off a generous quid, remarking, as he did so:

"I'll be on hand Thursday mornin', I reckon. Good-day."

The merchant politely returned his salutation, and watched him thoughtfully after he shut the door and went swaggering down the street, looking in at every window he passed, in regular country fashion.

A few moments after, the merchant took his hat and also went out.

A few hours later, Mr. Amos Palmer received the following dispatch:

"Send expert and detective at once to examine suspicious stones. EZRA COHEN."

Ezra Cohen had for years had business relations with Amos Palmer, going to New York several times every twelve months to purchase diamonds and other jewels, for the St. Louis trade.

On his last visit thither Mr. Palmer had mentioned the bold robbery, which had resulted in his losing such valuable diamonds, and had described some of the most costly stones, saying, that possibly they might some time fall into his hands.

Mr. Cohen was not sure, but he was impressed that the two larger stones of the collection which the miner had brought to sell him, on that morning, resembled, in some points, the ones described by Mr. Palmer; and so he thought it worth while to have the matter proved, if possible, although he felt some compunctions regarding his suspicions, because the miner had appeared so frank and ingenuous.

If he had only left the stones with him as he had proposed doing, the matter of testing them could have been attended to during his absence. He hoped that he had not acted too hastily in telegraphing to Mr. Palmer; but he had done as his best judgment had prompted, and could only await the result with patience.

It was with no little nervousness, however, that he awaited Thursday morning, especially after receiving a reply to his message to the effect that "Tom Rider, the detective, and a diamond expert, would arrive on an early train of that day."

They did so, and presented themselves at Ezra Cohen's establishment soon after the store was opened for business that morning.

The merchant was already there, awaiting them, and received the two gentlemen in his private office, where they held a confidential conversation regarding the matter in hand.

The expert was quite confident, after listening to Mr. Cohen's description of the diamonds, that they would prove to be the ones they were seeking, but the detective was not quite so hopeful; he had been disappointed so many times of late that he looked upon the dark side, while he was somewhat skeptical about the supposed miner making his appearance again.

About nine o'clock, however, the man swaggered into the store, an enormous quid of tobacco inside his cheek.

"He has never been in Australia," said Detective Rider, in a low tone, but with sudden energy, as he and his companion watched him approach the counter, where Mr. Cohen was quietly examining a case of watches.

"Wall," he remarked, in his broad, drawling tone, "got yer expert on hand this mornin'? I'd like to close up this 'ere business before I go up to Brownsville."

"Yes, I think I can settle about the diamonds to-day," Mr. Cohen politely remarked. "James," to a clerk, "please ask Mr. Knowlton to step this way."

James disappeared, and presently an elderly gentleman in spectacles issued from the private office.

"Mr. Knowlton," said the merchant, "this is the man who wished to dispose of some diamonds. Will you examine them, and give your opinion of their value?"

The miner darted a quick, searching look at the new-comer; but apparently the man was intent only upon the business in hand.

Drawing forth his leather pouch, the miner untied it and emptied its contents upon the square of black velvet which had been laid upon the show-case to receive them.

Mr. Knowlton examined each stone with careful scrutiny through a powerful glass, never once speaking until he had looked the collection through.

"They are quite valuable," he remarked, as he laid the last one down. "These," indicating the two large ones, "are especially so; you have been very fortunate, sir, to make such a collection, for there is not one poor one in the lot."

The miner gave a slight start at this observation, and the color deepened on his face; but he replied, with his habitual frankness:

"Well, I've had poor ones—plenty on 'em; but these were saved for a special purpose," and he winked knowingly at Mr. Cohen. Then he added, as he shot a sweeping look around the store and out through the window upon the sidewalk: "Jest give us their value in round figgers, and well soon settle this matter."

The expert quietly made a memorandum upon a card and laid it before the jeweler, then immediately withdrew to the private office.

"Well?" demanded Tom Rider, his keen little eyes gleaming with repressed excitement, as Mr. Knowlton shut the door after him.

"The two large stones belong to Amos Palmer, the others I never saw before, and you'd better hook your man as soon as possible, because he is beginning to smell powder," said the gentleman, in a low tone.

"I'm ready for him," muttered the detective, as he grabbed his hat, crushed it upon his head, and vanished out of the back door with a good deal more of elasticity in his step than when he had entered.

Going around to the front entrance he sauntered into the store and up to the counter, where Mr. Cohen was apparently trying to drive a close bargain for the Australian(?) diamonds, but really waiting for some sign from the men closeted in his office.

He paused at the entrance of the new-comer, bowed gravely, and politely inquired:

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"I'm sorry to give you any trouble," the detective returned, in quick, sharp tones, "but it is my duty to arrest this man! You are my prisoner, sir," he concluded, laying his hand on the shoulder of the supposed miner.

A startled oath broke from the man's lips, and he made an agile spring for the door.

But the detective was too quick for him, and deftly placed a pair of twisters about his wrists, with such force as to wring a howl of agony from him.

"None of that, my fine fellow," Mr. Rider said, sternly, as he slyly tried to slip his other hand underneath his coat, and he gave the twisters another forcible turn. "Just you let that revolver alone."

"All right," said the miner, apparently yielding; "but what's the charge? Ye can't expect a fellar to submit very tamely to this kind o' thing without knowing what he's nabbed for."

"I arrest you for robbery. These diamonds are stolen property," was the brief reply of the detective.

"You don't say!" drawled the man, in a tone of sarcastic wonder. "Perhaps ye'll be good enough to prove what ye assert."

The detective could but admire the cool effrontery of the fellow, but he quietly responded:

"It has already been proved—those large diamonds have just been identified."

"Ah!"

The miner said no more, but quietly submitted to have a pair of handcuffs snapped on his wrists.

The diamonds were secured, and the prisoner was marched off to the station-house, while Ezra Cohen gave utterance to a sigh of relief over the fact that he had made no mistake.



CHAPTER IX.

MR. RIDER RECEIVES ANOTHER SET-BACK.

Jake Walton, as the supposed miner gave his name, was thoroughly searched by Detective Rider, after reaching the station-house, but nothing suspicious was found upon him except a revolver. He had considerable money, but nothing to indicate that he had ever been concerned in any robbery, or to confirm the belief that he was other than he pretended to be.

He submitted to being searched with the utmost indifference, but drawlingly remarked during the operation, he "supposed they'd take bail—he wasn't used to bein' shut up, and it would come pretty tough on him."

"Of course the magistrate will accept suitable bail," said Rider, not imagining that the prisoner could find any one to go security for him to the large sum likely to be asked.

The miner requested that a lawyer might be sent to him at once, after which he coolly sat down, drew out a morning paper, and began to read.

Later in the day a legal gentleman presented himself in his cell, and there followed a long consultation between the two, and toward evening the lawyer, after consulting with a police justice, called at the Southern Hotel and inquired for a lady by the name of Mrs. J.M. Walton.

Yes, there was such a person stopping there, the clerk informed him, whereupon the lawyer sent up his card to her with the request that she would grant him a private interview.

The messenger returned in about fifteen minutes, saying the lady would receive him in her private parlor. Upon being conducted thither, he found a handsome elderly woman awaiting him, and immediately explained his business, relating the circumstances of the arrest of Jake Walton, and concluded by telling her that he had been employed as counsel for the young man, who had sent him to her to arrange for bail.

Mrs. Walton appeared to be greatly disturbed by these disagreeable tidings. She said she had come there expecting to meet her son, who had just returned from Australia, and it was very trying to be told that he had been arrested for theft. Then she inquired what amount would be required for security.

The counsel named the sum fixed by the police justice, whereupon Mrs. Walton appeared to be considerably agitated for a moment.

"I am an entire stranger in the city," she remarked, recovering herself somewhat. "I know no one to whom I could appeal to become bound for so large a sum. What can I do?"

"Have you plenty of means at your disposal, madame?" her companion inquired.

"Yes, I could give bail to almost any reasonable amount, only being a stranger here, I fear it would not be accepted from me," the lady returned, with a look of anxiety.

"No; but I think I can suggest a way out of that difficulty," said the lawyer, with a crafty smile.

"Then do so," said Mrs. Walton, quickly; "I am willing to pay handsomely to secure the release of my son from his uncomfortable position."

"Very well. Then if you can command the sum named you can deposit it in one of the city banks and I will attend to all other formalities for you. Of course, the money will be returned to you after the trial of your son."

"Could such arrangements be made?" Mrs. Walton eagerly inquired.

"Certainly. All that is required is sufficient security to insure the young man's appearance at his trial, and then he will be released."

"Then I can arrange it," the woman said, apparently greatly relieved; and after discussing ways and means a while longer, the lawyer took his leave.

A few hours served to arrange matters satisfactorily to all parties. The sum required was deposited in one of the city banks, and the cashier was empowered to pay it over to the city treasurer, if Jake Walton failed to appear at the time named to answer to the charge of complicity in the Palmer diamond robbery. He was then released, the lawyer was handsomely remunerated for his efficient services, and Mrs. Walton and her son returned to the Southern Hotel.

It was on their way thither that they entered the car in which Mona was also returning to the hotel, and when she made the discovery that the woman had on the very dress which the charming Mrs. Vanderbeck had worn on the day of the Palmer robbery.

We know what followed—how she immediately sent on to Ray for the scrap of cloth, and how, later, she found that it exactly fitted the rent in the dress.

We know, also, how, immediately following this discovery, she sought the headquarters of the detective force, where she opportunely encountered Mr. Rider, and related to him the discoveries which she had made.

Mrs. Walton had not appeared personally in connection with the formalities regarding the release of her son.

Everything had been conducted by the shrewd lawyer, so Detective Rider had not met her at all; but he felt confident, when Mona described her, together with her dress, that she was not the mother of Jake Walton at all, but one of the "gang" who had so successfully robbed different parties during the last two or three years.

The moment the young girl disappeared from the office, after her interview with him, the detective executed a number of antics which would have done credit to a practiced athlete.

"The girl is a cute little body," he muttered, with a chuckle, as he sat down to rest a moment, and plan his course of action, "and it is lucky for me that she happened to be in St. Louis just at this time and stopping at that very hotel. I wonder," he added, with a frown, "that I didn't think that the woman who gave bail, might be one of the gang. By Jove!" with a sudden start, "I believe that money, which she deposited in the bank as security, is only a blind after all, and they both intend to skip! What a wretched blunder it was to accept bail anyway! But I'll cage both birds this time, only what I do must be done quickly. They must have done a smashing big business in diamonds," he went on, musingly; "and there are evidently two women and one man associated. This Mrs. Walton is doubtless the old one who tricked Doctor Wesselhoff, and that red-headed Mrs. Vanderbeck, I am still confident, is none other than the Widow Bently, who did Justin Cutler and Mrs. Vanderheck out of their money. I'd just like to get hold of all three! Tom Rider, if you only could, it would be a feather in your cap such as doesn't often wave over the head of an ordinary detective, not to mention the good round sum that would swell your pocket-book! But half a loaf is better than no bread, and so here goes! I'll arrest them both, and shall object to anybody going bail for them."

Highly elated over the prospect before him, the man brushed his neat suit until there wasn't an atom of dust upon it, polished his boots until he could see his own face reflected in them, rearranged his necktie in the last new style, then ran lightly down stairs, and hastened, with quick, elastic tread, toward the Southern Hotel, where he expected to accomplish such great results.

* * * * *

"Where have you been, Ruth?" exclaimed Mrs. Montague, in an irritated tone, as Mona entered that lady's parlor upon her return from the detective's office. "I wish you wouldn't go out without consulting me. I've been waiting here for a long time for you to mend these gloves."

"I am very sorry," Mona returned, flushing, "but after you went out to drive I assisted the chambermaid, who was nearly crazy with the toothache, to put some of the rooms in order; then, as you had not returned, I went out for a little walk."

"Well, I don't mind about the walk, but I didn't bring you with me to do chamber-work in every hotel we stop at," sharply retorted the much annoyed lady. "You can go at the gloves right away," she added; "then I shall want you to help me pack, for we are to leave on the first boat to-morrow morning. And," she concluded, thus explaining to Mona her unusual irritability, "we've got to make the trip alone, after all, for my friend is worse this morning, and so the whole family have given it up."

"I am sorry that you are to be disappointed. I should suppose you would wish to give it up yourself. I am afraid you will not enjoy it at all," Mona replied, wondering why she did not at once return to New York instead of keeping on.

"Of course, I shall not enjoy it," snapped the woman, but bestowing a searching glance upon her companion, "and I would not go on, only Louis was to join us at New Orleans, and it is too late now to change his plans."

Mona's face fell at this unexpected and disagreeable intelligence.

The last thing she desired was Louis Hamblin's companionship, and she would have been only too glad to return at once to New York.

"Could you not telegraph to him?" she suggested.

"No; for I suppose he has already left New York," Mrs. Montague curtly replied.

Mona was quite unhappy over the prospect before her; then it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps Detective Rider would need her as a witness, if he should arrest the Waltons, and in that case she would be compelled to return to New York.

Still she felt very uncomfortable even with this hope to encourage her, and but for the discovery of that morning, she would have regretted having consented to accompany Mrs. Montague upon her trip.

She sat down to mend the gloves, with what composure she could assume, although her nerves were in a very unsettled state, for she was continually looking for a summons from Mr. Rider.

When they were finished she helped about the packing of Mrs. Montague's wardrobe, and then repaired to her chamber, to get her own in readiness to leave; but still no word from the detective, and she thought it very strange.

It might have been an hour after Mona's return to the hotel, when that official sauntered into the office, where he picked up a paper and looked it over for a few minutes. Then he went to the counter, pulled the register before him, and began to glance up and down its pages.

He finally found the names he was searching for, then turning to the clerk, he requested that a boy might take a note from him to Mrs. J.M. Walton's room.

"Mrs. Walton?" repeated the clerk, with some surprise.

"Yes; I have a little matter of business with her," said Mr. Rider, who intended to make his arrest very quietly.

"I am sorry you did not come earlier, then," regretfully responded the clerk, "for Mrs. Walton and her son left the hotel about two hours ago,"

The detective's heart sank with a sudden shock.

Gone! his birds flown when he had them so nearly captured!

"Are you sure?" he sharply demanded, while in spite of his long and severe training, he turned very white, and his under lip twitched nervously.

"Certainly, or I should not have so stated," returned the clerk, with some dignity. "When young Mr. Walton settled his bill, he ordered a carriage to be in waiting at eleven o'clock, and both he and his mother left the house at that time. I regret your disappointment, sir, in missing them."

This was almost more than Mr. Rider could bear; but he could not doubt the man's word, and he feared the thieves had escaped him again. They must have left while Mona was telling him her story at the detective headquarters.

They had been very sharp. Finding themselves in a bad box, they had planned their movements with great cunning. He believed that Mrs. Walton had deposited the amount required for bail in the bank, with the deliberate intention of forfeiting it, rather than have her accomplice brought to trial; doubtless he was too useful to her to run any risk of his being found guilty, and imprisoned for a term of years, and thus put an end to their successful career.

The detective berated himself soundly again for not objecting to the acceptance of bail at all, but it was too late now to remedy the matter. Regrets were useless, and he must bestir himself, strike a fresh trail, if possible, and hope for better results.

He wondered why they had not skipped immediately after Jake Walton's release, but finally concluded that they had remained in the city for a day or two to disarm suspicion.

"Where did they go?" he inquired, as soon as he could command his voice to speak calmly.

"To the Grand Union Station. I believe they were going North, for I heard the young man say something about purchasing tickets, at reduced rates, for Chicago," the clerk replied.

"Had they baggage with them?" Mr. Rider questioned.

"Yes, a trunk and a good-sized grip," said the man.

The detective thought a moment.

Then he called for writing materials, hastily wrote a few lines, which he sealed, and directed to "Miss Richards."

"There is a young lady by that name stopping here, I believe," he remarked, as he laid the envelope before the clerk.

"Yes; she is with a Mrs. Montague."

"That is the lady," said the detective. "Will you see that this letter is given into her own hands, and privately? It is a matter of importance."

"Yes, sir, I will myself attend to the matter," responded the obliging clerk.

Mr. Rider deposited a piece of silver upon the envelope, touched his hat, and walked briskly from the hotel.

He jumped into a carriage that was waiting before the door.

"To the Grand Union Station," he ordered. "Be quick about it, and you shall have double fare."

The man was quick about it, but the train for Chicago had been gone some time.

Mr. Rider had of course expected this, but he at once sought an interview with the ticket agent, and made earnest inquiries regarding those who had purchased tickets for Chicago that morning; but he could learn of no persons answering to the description of the miner and his supposed mother.

If he could have obtained any intelligence regarding them, he had intended to telegraph ahead, and order their arrest when they should arrive at the end of their journey. But of course it would be of no use to put this plan into execution now, as he doubted very much their having gone to Chicago at all.

He was very much disheartened, and retraced his steps to his hotel, with a sickening sense of total defeat.

"Tom Rider," he muttered, fiercely, as he packed his own grip to take the first train back to New York, "you might as well give up the business and take up some trade; you've been hoodwinked by these clever thieves often enough."

But there was a very dogged, resolute expression on his plain face, nevertheless, as he turned it northward, which betrayed that he did not mean to give up his search quite yet.

That afternoon when Mona went down to dinner, the clerk of the hotel waylaid her and quietly slipped an envelope into her hand.

"Thank you," she said, in a low tone, and hastily concealed it in her pocket.

When she was alone again she broke it open and read, with almost as much disappointment as the detective himself had experienced, when he found that his birds had flown, these words:

"Gone! They gave us the slip about eleven o'clock. Save the scrap of cloth—it may be needed later. R."

"Oh, dear!" sighed Mona, regretfully; "and the Palmer robbery is still as much of a mystery as ever."



CHAPTER X.

THE PLOT AGAINST MONA THICKENS.

The next morning Mrs. Montague and her young companion left the Southern Hotel and proceeded directly on board one of the palatial steamers which ply between St. Louis and New Orleans.

Mrs. Montague secured one of the best staterooms for their use, and immediately made herself comfortable for the trip.

The weather was very fine, the season advanced, for the foliage was rapidly developing to perfection, and the sail down the broad tortuous river was delightful.

Mona enjoyed it, in spite of her dread of meeting Louis Hamblin at the end of it, and her anxiety to get back to New York and Ray.

Mrs. Montague had entirely recovered her good nature; indeed, she had never been so kind and gracious toward her seamstress as during this portion of their trip. She appeared to exert herself to make her enjoy it—was more free and companionable, and an observer would have regarded them as relatives and equals.

Mrs. Montague made many acquaintances, as she always did everywhere, and entered most heartily into every plan for amusing and entertaining the party on board the steamer.

The days were mostly spent in delightful intercourse and promenades on deck, where Mona was put forward and made to join in the pleasures; while the evenings were devoted to tableaux, charades, music, and dancing, as the passengers desired.

It seemed almost like a return to her old life before her uncle's death, and could she have obliterated all sadness and painful memories, Mona would have enjoyed it thoroughly.

They had barely touched the levee at New Orleans when they espied Louis Hamblin, dressed with great care and in the height of style, awaiting their arrival.

Mrs. Montague signaled to him from the upper deck; and he, with an answering wave of his hand, sprang aboard, and quickly made his way to her side.

He greeted her with evident pleasure, remarking that it seemed an age since he had seen her, and then he turned to Mona, with outstretched hand and smiling eyes.

"How well you are looking, Miss Richards," he remarked; "your trip has done you a great deal of good."

Mona bowed, but without appearing to notice his extended hand, and then she turned away to gather their wraps and satchels, preparatory to going ashore.

Mr. Hamblin frowned at her coldness, but a peculiar smile curved his lips as he whispered in Mrs. Montague's ear:

"We'll soon bring your proud beauty to better terms."

"Don't be rash, Louis," she returned; "we must be very wary if we would accomplish our purpose. You say you love the girl, and I have consented to let you have your way, but, since she is not inclined to accept your advances, you will have to play your cards very shrewdly if you expect to win."

"All right; I will be circumspection personified, if you will only help me to make that girl my wife," the young man said earnestly. "I do love her with all my heart; and, Aunt Margie, I'll quit sowing wild oats, turn over a new leaf, and be a good man if I succeed in this."

Mrs. Montague regarded him somewhat skeptically, as he made this eager avowal, but it was almost immediately followed by a look of anxiety.

"I hope you will—you certainly owe me that much after all that I have done for you," she returned. "Mind you," she added, "I never would have yielded this point if I had not been driven to it."

"Driven to it! How?" inquired her nephew, regarding her searchingly.

"Driven to it, because I have found out that she is Mona Montague, and I'm afraid that she has an eye to her father's property. I believe she is very keen—doubtless she knows that she has a legal claim upon what he left, and means to assert it, or she never would have so cunningly wormed herself into my family. Of course it will be difficult for her to prove her position, since I have that certificate of marriage; still she may have some other proof that I know nothing about which she is secretly working. Of course I'd rather you would marry her," Mrs. Montague gloomily observed, "and thus make our interests mutual, than run any risk of losing the whole of my money. Still, I did want you to marry Kitty McKenzie: I wanted you to fortify yourself with additional wealth."

"I have suspected that the girl was Mona all along," Louis quietly remarked.

"Oh, have you?" sharply retorted his aunt, as she studied his face with suspicious eyes. "Perhaps you have been plotting to marry her for the sole purpose of getting this fortune wholly under your control."

"Pshaw! Aunt Margie, how foolish you are! Haven't I always worked for your interests? More than that, haven't you always assured me that the fortune would be mine eventually? Why, then, should I plot for it?" the young man replied, in soothing tones, but coloring beneath her glance. "I tell you," he went on, a note of passion in his voice, "I love the girl; I would even be willing to marry her without a dollar in prospect, and then go to work to support her. Now come, do not let us quarrel over imaginary troubles, but unite our forces for our mutual benefit. It will be far safer for you if she becomes my wife, for then you will have nothing to fear, and I shall have won the desire of my heart."

"Well, it will have to be, I suppose," said Mrs. Montague, moodily. "I wonder how I was ever so deceived though, when she looks so like Mona Forester. I can understand now why Ray Palmer was so attentive to her at Hazeldean. Strange it never occurred to me, when I saw him waiting upon her, that she was Mona Montague, and they must have had a quiet laugh by themselves over having so thoroughly hoodwinked us."

"They didn't hoodwink me," Mr. Hamblin affirmed, with a sly smile; "I knew all the time who she was."

"I don't see how you knew it," Mrs. Montague retorted, impatiently.

"I will tell you. I was in Macy's one day when the girl ran across some acquaintances. She bowed and smiled to them, as I suppose she had always been in the habit of doing; but the petted darlings of le bon ton drew themselves up haughtily, stared rudely at her, and passed on, while the poor child flushed, then paled, and looked ready to drop. A moment later, the two proud misses shot by me, one of them remarking with curling lips and a toss of her head, 'Do you suppose that Mona Montague expects that we are going to recognize her now?'"

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Mrs. Montague angrily demanded.

"Because I knew that, if you suspected her identity, you would turn her out of the house forthwith, and then I should have hard work getting into her good graces."

"You are a sly one, Louis."

"One must look out for one's own interests in some respects," he coolly responded.

"Does she know that you suspect her identity?"

"No, not yet; but I mean she soon shall."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Montague, with sudden thought, "maybe you can use this knowledge to aid your suit—only don't let her know that I am in the secret until you are sure of her."

"That has been my intention all along—for I have meant to marry her, by hook or crook," and the young man smiled complacently.

"Look out, Louis; don't overreach yourself," said his companion, bending forward, and looking warningly into his face. "If you make an enemy of me, I warn you, it will be the worse for you."

"My dear aunt, I have no intention of making an enemy of you—you and I have been chums too long for any ill-will to spring up between us now. But," he concluded, looking about him, "we must not remain here talking any longer; most of the passengers have already left the boat I will go for a carriage and we will drive directly to the St. Charles, where I have rooms engaged for you."

Mrs. Montague turned to call Mona, who was standing at some distance from them, watching the men unload the boat.

"Come," she said, "we must go ashore."

Mona followed her from the boat, and into the carriage, utterly ignoring Louis Hamblin's assistance as she entered. She shrank more and more from him, while a feeling of depression and foreboding suddenly changed her from the bright, care-free girl, which she had seemed ever since leaving St. Louis, into a proud, reticent, and suspicious woman.

Upon reaching the St. Charles Hotel, Mrs. Montague informed Mona that dinner would be served shortly, and she would need to be expeditious in making her toilet.

"I should prefer not to go to the dining-room," Mona began, flushing.

"But I wish you to, for we are going to drive afterward to some of the points of interest in the city," Mrs. Montague returned.

"If you will excuse me—"

"Nonsense," retorted her companion, again interrupting her; "don't be a goose, Ruth! I want you with me, and we will not discuss the point any further."

Mona hesitated a moment, then turned away, but with a dignity which warned Mrs. Montague that it might not be well to enforce her commands too rigorously, or she might rebel outright.

Mona went down to the dining-room, but to her great relief received no disagreeable attentions from Mr. Hamblin, who sat on the right, while her seat was on the left of his aunt. He did not address her during the meal, except to ascertain if she was properly waited upon by the servants.

Afterward they went for a drive out on the shell road, which proved to be really delightful, for the city was in its prime, while, rain having fallen early in the day, the streets were not in the least dusty.

Mrs. Montague and Louis monopolized the conversation, thus leaving Mona free to look around about her.

The only thing that occurred to annoy her was on their return to the hotel. Louis, in assisting her to alight, held her hand in a close, lingering clasp for a moment, and, looking admiringly into her eyes, remarked, in a low tone:

"I hope you have enjoyed your drive, Miss—Richards."

What could he mean, Mona asked herself, by that significant pause before and that emphasis on her name?

She forcibly wrenched her hand from his, and deigning him no reply, walked with uplifted head into the hotel, and up to her own room.

The next day she politely, but firmly, declined to go out driving, and remained by herself to write a long letter to Ray; thus she avoided the hated companionship of the man, who became more and more odious to her.

The third evening after their arrival Mrs. Montague went to a concert with some people whose acquaintance she had made while on the steamer, and Mona congratulated herself that she could have a long quiet evening in which to read a book in which she had become deeply interested.

She had not a thought of being interrupted, for she supposed that Louis had accompanied his aunt, and she was sitting contentedly by the table in Mrs. Montague's private parlor, when she heard the door behind her open and close.

She looked up surprised, but the expression was quickly succeeded by one of dismay when she saw Louis Hamblin advancing toward her.

She arose, regarding him with cold displeasure.

He bowed politely as he remarked:

"Do not rise. I simply came to get some letters that Aunt Margie wished me to mail for her."

Mona resumed her seat, greatly relieved at this assurance, and went on with her reading, while the young man took up his aunt's writing-pad, which lay upon the table, as if to search for the letters.

He took out a couple and slipped them into his pocket; then selecting a pen, began himself to write.

Mona felt very uncomfortable, sitting there alone with him, but she kept hoping that he would soon go out again, and so went on with her reading.

Presently, however, he laid down his pen, and, glancing across the table at her, asked:

"What book have you that is so interesting?"

"The Senator's Bride,'" Mona briefly responded.

"Ah! I have never read it. What do you think of it?"

"It is quite entertaining," was the brief, cold reply.

"Pray, do not be so cold and proud—so exceedingly laconic," the young man said, with a smile, which was intended to be persuasive.

Instantly the young girl arose again, stately and frigid as an iceberg.

She attempted to pass him and go to her own room, but he threw out his hand, seized her arm, and stopped her.

"Please do not go!" he urged, in an imploring tone. "I have something which I want very much to say to you."

Mona's blood began to boil, and her eyes flashed dangerously at his presumption in daring to touch her.

She was too proud to struggle with him, and she could not shake off his hold upon her arm.

"Release me, Mr. Hamblin!" she said, in ominously quiet tones.

"Nay, do not treat me so!" he pleaded. "Be kind to me for once, and let me open my heart to you."

Her red lips curled.

"Will you let me pass?" she icily demanded.

He colored hotly at her tone; a flash of anger gleamed in his eyes.

"No. Be seated, Miss Mona Montague; I have something important to say to you," he said, in a tone that struck terror to her heart, while the utterance of her real name so startled and unnerved her that, almost involuntarily, she sank back into her chair, her face as white as her handkerchief, and trembling in every limb.

"Ah! that surprises you, doesn't it?" he remarked, with a smile of triumph; "and now I imagine you will be more tractable."

"What do you mean?" demanded Mona, recovering her composure somewhat, and determined not to commit herself, if she could avoid it.

"What do I mean?" he repeated, with a light laugh. "I mean to have a little private and serious conversation with Miss Mona Montague; and when I have finished, I do not believe that she will treat me quite so cavalierly as she has been doing of late."

"I do not wish to hold any conversation with you, Mr. Hamblin," Mona began, haughtily.

"Perhaps not, but you will, nevertheless," he interposed; "and, let me tell you, to begin with, it will be useless for you to ignore the name by which I have addressed you. I have discovered your identity in spite of your clever efforts to represent some one else—or rather to conceal your personality. I know that you are Mona Montague, the daughter of my aunt's husband and a girl named Mona Forester—"

"Stay!" cried Mona, starting again to her feet, her eyes blazing. "I will not hear my mother spoken of with any disrespect."

"I beg your pardon; I had no intention of wounding you thus," said the young man, regretfully, and flushing. "I simply wished you to understand that I had discovered your identity; and since you have now virtually acknowledged it, by asserting that Mona Forester was your mother, I beg you will be reasonable, and talk the matter over calmly with me, and hear what I have to propose to you."

Mona sank weakly back.

She saw that it would be worse than useless to deny what he had asserted; she had indeed betrayed and acknowledged too much for that.

"Very well. I will listen to what you wish to say, but be kind enough to be brief, for I have no desire to prolong this interview beyond what is absolutely necessary for your purpose," she said, with freezing dignity.

"Well, then," Louis Hamblin began, "I have known who you were ever since you came into Aunt Margie's house as a seamstress."

Then he went on to explain how he learned it, and Mona, remembering the incident but too well, saw that it would be best to quietly accept the fact of his knowledge.

"Does Mrs. Montague also know?" she asked, with breathless eagerness.

"She suspected you at first," he evasively answered, "but you so diplomatically replied to her questions—you were so self-possessed under all circumstances, and especially so when one day you found a picture of your mother, that she was forced to believe your strange resemblance to Mona Forester only a coincidence."



CHAPTER XI.

MONA IN A TRYING POSITION.

Mona breathed more freely, for she believed from his evasive reply that Mrs. Montague did not now believe her to be Mona Forester's child.

"I beg you will not tell her," she said, impulsively, and then instantly regretted having made the request.

The young man's face lighted.

If they could have a common secret he believed that he should make some headway in his wooing.

"That will depend upon how kind you are to me," he said, meaningly.

Mona's head went up haughtily again. His presumption, his assurance, both annoyed and angered her.

He affected not to notice her manner, and asked:

"What was your object, Miss Montague, in coming into my aunt's family under an assumed name?"

Mona thought a moment before replying; then she felt that since he already knew so much, it would do no harm to tell him the truth.

"I had no intention at first of going anywhere under an assumed name," she said, gravely. "I applied at an employment bureau for a situation as seamstress, and this position was obtained for me. I did not even know the name of the woman who had engaged me, until I entered Mrs. Montague's house. When I learned the truth, I was tempted to leave at once; but the desire to learn more than I already knew regarding my parentage made me bold to brave discovery, and remain at least for a while, and so upon the spur of the moment I gave the name of Ruth Richards—Ruth is my middle name, and Richards very nearly like that of the man who married my mother—"

"Who married your mother?" questioned Louis Hamblin, in a mocking tone.

"Yes; they were legally married. I at least know that much," said Mona, positively, determined to make him think she fully believed it.

"How did you learn so much?"

"My uncle assured me of the fact only the day before he died."

"Your uncle? You mean Walter Dinsmore, I suppose?"

"Yes; of course."

"How much of your history did he reveal to you?" questioned the young man, eagerly.

"I do not feel under any obligation to tell you that," Mona coldly answered.

"Now, Miss Montague," Louis said, with well assumed frankness and friendliness, "why will you persist in treating me as an enemy? Why will you not have confidence in me, and allow me to help you? I know your whole history—I know, too, from what you have said, that you are ignorant of much that is vital to your interests, and which I could reveal to you, if I chose. Now forget any unpleasantness that may have arisen between us, tell me just what you hoped to learn by remaining in my aunt's family, and, believe me, I stand ready to help you."

Mona lifted her great liquid brown eyes, and searched his face.

Oh, how she longed to know the truth about her mother; but she distrusted him—she instinctively doubted his sincerity.

He read something of this in her glance, and continued, hoping to disarm her suspicions:

"Of course you know that Aunt Margie is, or was, Richmond Montague's second wife—"

"Ah! by that statement you yourself virtually acknowledge that my mother was his first wife," triumphantly interposed Mona. "As I said before, my uncle assured me of the fact, but your admission is worth something to me as corroborative evidence. All that I desire now is tangible proof of it; if you can and will obtain that for me, I shall have some faith in your assertion that you wish to help me."

"Are you so eager to claim, as your father, the man who deserted your mother?" Louis Hamblin asked, with a sneer, and wishing to sound her a little further.

"No; I simply want proof that my mother was a legal wife—I have only scorn and contempt for the man who wronged her," Mona replied, intense aversion vibrating in her tones. "I regard him, as my uncle did, as a knave—a brute."

"Did Walter Dinsmore represent him as such to you?" inquired her companion, in a mocking tone.

"He did; he expressed the utmost contempt and loathing for the man who had ruined his sister's life."

The young man gave vent to a short, derisive laugh.

"I cannot deny the justness of the epithets applied to him," he said, with a sneer, "but, that such terms should have fallen from the immaculate lips of the cultured and aristocratic Walter Dinsmore, rather amuses me, especially as the present Mrs. Dinsmore might, with some reason, perhaps, bring the same charges against him."

"Did you know my uncle?" Mona questioned, with some surprise.

"Not personally; but Mrs. Montague knew him very well years ago."

"Oh! I wonder if you could tell me—" Mona began, greatly agitated, as she recalled the dreadful suspicion that had flashed into her mind regarding her uncle, in connection with her father's death.

"If I could tell you what?" Louis inquired, while he wondered what thought could have so suddenly blanched her face, and sent that look of terror into her beautiful eyes.

"Oh, I want to know—did he—how did my father die?" the young girl cried, in faltering, trembling tones.

Louis Hamblin regarded her with unfeigned astonishment at the question.

"How did your father die?" he repeated. "Why, like any other respectable gentleman—in his own house, and of an incurable disease."

"Oh! then he did die a natural death," breathed Mona, with a sigh of relief that was almost a sob.

"Certainly. Ah!" and her companion appeared suddenly to divine her thoughts, "so you imagined that Walter Dinsmore killed Richmond Montague for the wrong done your mother! Ha! ha! I have no doubt that he felt bitter enough to commit murder, or almost any other act of violence, to avenge her; but let me assure you, Miss Montague, that that high-toned gentleman never soiled his hands with blood; and if that was your thought—"

"It is no matter what I thought," Mona hastily, but coldly, interposed, for she had no intention of confessing any such suspicion; but she was greatly relieved to learn that it had no foundation, and she now bitterly reproached herself for having even momentarily entertained a thought of anything that had been so foreign to her uncle's noble nature.

"To go back to what we were speaking of before," she continued, gravely, "will you furnish me with tangible proof of my mother's marriage? I know that she eloped with Richmond Montague, that they lived together for several months, when he suddenly deserted her, and that there is some mystery connected with that event—something which my uncle hesitated or feared to tell me. I know, too, that he was very anxious to reveal something more to me when he lay dying, and could not, because he had been stricken speechless. But for that fact, I believe I should not now be obliged to ask this favor of you," she concluded, flushing.

"Does it gall you so much, to ask a favor of me?" he inquired, bitterly. "But why," he went on, without waiting for a reply, "are you so exceedingly anxious to obtain this proof? Do you expect by the use of it to secure to yourself the property left by your father? Was that your object in remaining in my aunt's family under an assumed name?"

"No!" Mona vehemently returned. "I would not touch one dollar of his money. I would scorn to profit by so much as a penny of the fortune left by the man who deserted his wife in her sad extremity, and then, when death freed him from the tie which bound him to her, married a woman whom he did not love; who possessed so little of fatherly instinct in his nature, that he never acknowledged his child, nor betrayed the slightest interest in or affection for her. I would never own him for such a purpose; while, were it not for the sake of establishing my mother's honor, I would even repudiate the name I bear," she concluded, looking so proud and beautiful in her righteous scorn that the young man gazed upon her with admiration.

"You are very proud-spirited," he remarked; then, with a sly smile, "but as for the name you affect to so despise, it would be an easy matter to change it."

Mona colored at this observation, not because she gave a thought to his meaning, but because she hoped it would not be so very long before she would change the hated name of Montague for the honored one of Palmer.

Her companion noticed the flush, and an eager look flashed into his eyes, while his lips trembled with the torrent of burning words which he longed to pour into her ears. But he controlled himself for the moment, and continued:

"You ask me if I will give you the tangible proof of your mother's marriage. I have told you that I can do so; that I know the whole story of the elopement and the desertion. I can produce absolute proof that Mona Forester was a legal wife."

"Then give it to me—give it to me and I will believe that you are my friend," Mona cried, appealingly, and trembling with excitement at his statement.

"I will do so gladly," the young man said, a smile of triumph curling his lips, "but I can only do so conditionally."

"Conditionally?" repeated Mona, her great eyes flashing up to his face with a startled look.

"Yes. I can produce the certificate proving your father's and mother's honorable marriage. I can give you letters that will also prove it, and prove, too, that your father was not quite so disreputable and heartless as you have been led to believe. There is also a picture of him, painted on ivory, and set in a frame of gold, embellished with costly stones, which he had made for his wife, and there are valuable jewels and other keepsakes which he bestowed upon her with lavish hands, and which now rightly belong to you. All these I will give you if—if you will marry me—if you will be my wife, Mona."

The girl sprang to her feet, every atom of color now gone from her face, and confronted him with haughty mien.

"Your wife!" she began, pantingly. But he would not let her go on—he meant at least to explain himself more fully before allowing her to reject him.

"Yes, why not?" he asked, throwing into his tone all the tenderness he could command, "for I love you, Mona, with all my heart. I have told you so once before, but you would not believe me. You taunted me with unworthy motives, and asserted that I would not dare to confess my affection to my aunt; but I have confessed it, and she is willing that I should win you. I know that I have paid devoted attention to Kitty McKenzie, as you also twitted me of doing, and Aunt Margie wanted me to marry her; but when she found that I had no love to give her, that my heart was set upon you, she yielded the point, and I now have her full and free consent to make you my wife. Do not scorn my suit, Mona; I cannot think of you as Ruth Richards any longer; do not curl your proud lips and flash your glorious eyes upon me with scorn, as you did that day at Hazeldean, for I offer you a warm and loyal heart. I know, that I am not worthy of you," he went on, flushing and speaking humbly for once, for he was terribly in earnest; "I have been guilty of a great many things which I have learned to regret, since I have known you; but I can conquer everything if you will give me your love as an incentive, and I will be a better man in the future. I will even work for you, if you so despise the fortune which your father left and which I have expected to inherit from my aunt. Oh, Mona, do not despise my love for you, for it is the purest attribute of my nature, and—"

"Pray cease," Mona here interposed, for she felt unable to hear any more of this passionate avowal, while she was greatly surprised and really moved by the depth of feeling which he evinced. "I would be the last one," she continued, in kind, grave tones, but with averted eyes and trembling lips, "to despise the true affection of any man. If I said anything to wound you that day at Hazeldean, I regret it now, although I felt at the time that you showed some disrespect in your manner of approaching me. But I cannot be your wife; if you make that the condition"—and her lips curled a trifle here—"of my learning the mystery regarding my father's desertion of my mother, and securing the proof of their marriage; then I must forever relinquish all such hopes, for I could never marry a man—"