One of them gave a slight start as her garments brushed by him, took a step forward for a second look at her, then he quietly broke away from the others, and followed her, about a dozen yards behind, up Chambers street.

The woman did not appear to notice that she was being followed, for she did not accelerate her speed in the least, nor seem to pay any heed to what was going on about her. She kept straight on, as if her mind was intent only upon her own business.

But all at once, as she reached the corner of Broadway, she slipped into a carriage that stood waiting there, and was driven rapidly up town.

An angry exclamation burst from the man following her, who was none other than Rider, the detective, and he hastened forward to catch another glimpse of the carriage, if possible, before it should get out of sight.

He saw it in the distance, and hailing another, he gave chase as fast as the crowded condition of the street would permit.

Some twenty minutes later he came upon the same carriage standing on another corner, the driver as quiet and unconcerned as if he had not been dodging vehicles at the risk of a smash-up, or urging his horses to a lawless pace in that busy thoroughfare.

But the coach was empty.

Mr. Rider alighted and accosted the man.

"Where is the passenger that you had a few minutes ago?" he inquired.

The man pointed with his whip to a store near by, then relapsed into his indolent and indifferent attitude.

Mr. Rider shook his head emphatically, to indicate his disbelief of this pantomimic information, and muttered a few words not intended for polite ears as he turned on his heel and moved away.

"Fooled again," he added, "and I thought I had her sure this time. Of course she didn't go into that store any more than that other party went from St. Louis to Chicago. But it's worth something to know that she is in New York. I'll try to keep my eyes open this time."

In spite of his skepticism, however, he entered the store and sauntered slowly through it, but without encountering any woman in black, having red hair.

"She came off the Puritan," he mused, as he issued into the street again, and turned his face up town. "I imagine that she either came on from Fall River last night, or she is going back this afternoon. I'll hang round there about the time the Puritan leaves. Meantime I'll take a stroll in some of the upper tendom regions, for I'll bet she is a high-liver."

He boarded a car and was soon rolling up toward the more aristocratic portion of the city, and thus we must leave him for a while.

When Ray returned to Mrs. Montague's residence for Mona, he found another carriage waiting at the door, and it was just at this moment that Mona made her strange discovery in the woman's bedroom.

"Mr. Corbin's carriage," Ray murmured to himself as he alighted and went up the steps. "I wonder if Mr. Graves is with him, and if Mrs. Montague has returned. I hope she has not made matters unpleasant for Mona."

He rang the bell and was admitted by Mary, who wondered how many more times she would be obliged to run to the door that morning.

"Is Miss—Miss Richards through with her packing?" the young man inquired, but having almost betrayed Mona's identity, which, in accordance with the advice of the lawyers, they were not quite ready to do yet.

"She's still up stairs, sir," the girl replied. "I'll step up and tell her that you have come. Perhaps you'll wait in the reception-room, sir, as Mrs. Montague has just come in and has callers in the drawing-room."

"Certainly," Ray answered, and was about to follow her thither, when he heard his name spoken, and turning, saw Mr. Graves beckoning to him from the doorway of the drawing-room.

"Come in here," he said; "we shall need you in this business," and Ray knew that Mrs. Montague was about to be interviewed upon various matters of importance.

"Very well," he replied, then turning to Mary, he added: "You may tell Miss Richards that she need not hurry. I will call you again when I am ready to go."

He then followed the lawyer into the drawing-room and the door was shut.

"There is something queer going on in there," she muttered. "Mrs. Montague seemed all worked up over something, and those two men looked as glum as parsons at a funeral. There is cook's bell again, and Miss Ruth must wait," she concluded, impatiently, as a ring came up from the lower regions, and then she went slowly and reluctantly down stairs again.



CHAPTER XVIII.

SOME INTERESTING DISCOVERIES.

Upon entering Mrs. Montague's beautiful drawing-room, Ray found, as he had expected, that Mr. Corbin was there also, and he at once surmised the nature of the lawyer's business.

Mrs. Montague gave a start of surprise as she saw him, and lost some of her color; then recovering herself, she arose with a charming smile, and went forward to greet him.

Ray thought she looked much older than when he had seen her before, for there were dark circles under her eyes, with crows' feet at their corners, and wrinkles on her forehead and about her mouth, which he had never noticed until then, and which, somehow, seemed to change the expression of her whole face.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," she remarked, with great cordiality, "but you perceive," with a glance at the lawyers, "that I am overrun with business. May I ask you to step into the library for a few moments until I am at liberty?"

"No, if you please, madame, it is at my request that Mr. Palmer is here," quietly but decidedly interposed Mr. Graves.

Mrs. Montague flushed hotly at this interference, then seeing that she could not change the condition of affairs, and that Ray evidently understood matters, as he only bowed in the most frigid manner in response to her effusive greeting, she resigned herself to the inevitable and returned to her chair with an air of haughty defiance.

It was Mrs. Montague whom Mona had heard moving about in the chamber adjoining the boudoir.

The woman had come in just after Mary admitted that first caller below, and speeding swiftly and noiselessly up stairs, was making some changes in her toilet when the bell rang again. Mr. Corbin and Mr. Graves were at the door. She heard it, and gliding softly into the hall, leaned over the balustrade to ascertain who had called.

The moment she heard Mr. Corbin inquire for her, she grew white with passion, and her eyes flashed angrily, for she imagined that he had come to question her again regarding Mona Forester. She did not see his companion, however.

"I will give him a dose to remember this time," she muttered. Then she heard Mary inform the gentlemen that she was not at home.

"Yes, I am, Mary," she said, in a low tone, for she felt in a defiant mood, and not suspecting the fatal nature of the lawyer's visit, and feeling very secure in her own position, she rather courted an opportunity to defy him. "Invite the gentleman in, and I will be down presently."

She turned to go back to her chamber to complete her toilet, when she heard some one moving about in her boudoir.

She glided to the door, softly opened it, and looked in. Instantly her face lighted with a smile of evil triumph, though she gave a great start of surprise as she saw Mona there, and evidently searching for something.

She had already learned that the girl had managed to escape from the power of Louis and returned to New York. Therefore she now imagined that she had but just arrived and had come directly there to secure her other trunk, when doubtless she would immediately seek Ray Palmer's protection, and denounce both herself and her nephew for their plot against her.

Such a proceeding she knew would ruin all her prospects of becoming Mr. Palmer's wife, and, actuated by a sudden impulse, she hastily drew the door to again and locked it. Then she sped back to her chamber door and turned the key in that also, to prevent escape that way, and entirely forgetting in her excitement that she had intended to make still further changes in her toilet before going below.

This done, she sped swiftly down stairs, and encountered Mary in the hall.

"Lor', marm! I didn't know you had come in till you spoke," the girl remarked, with a curious stare at her.

"I have a latch-key, you know," Mrs. Montague returned, as she swept on toward the drawing-room, and the girl wondered why she "looked so strange and seemed so flustered."

Mrs. Montague entered the room with haughty mien, intending to dispose of Mr. Corbin with short ceremony, but she was somewhat taken aback when she found that he was accompanied by another legal-looking gentleman.

She had but just exchanged formal greetings with them when Ray made his appearance; but she did not suspect that he was aware of Mona's presence in the house. Mr. Graves' remark had led her to suppose that he was there by his appointment.

Mr. Corbin bowed to the young man, and remarked:

"I was about to explain to Mrs. Montague that some proofs regarding the identity of Miss Montague have recently come into my possession."

"Do you mean to assert that you have proofs that will establish the theory which you advanced to me during your last call here?" Mrs. Montague demanded, with a derisive smile.

"That is exactly what I mean, madame," Mr. Corbin replied.

Mrs. Montague tossed her head scornfully.

She was sure that the only proof in existence of Mona Forester's legal marriage was at that moment safely lying in the secret compartment of that little table up stairs. She had not seen it since her return, for she had been too busy to look over those things again and destroy such as would be dangerous, if they should fall into other hands; but she had seen them so recently she felt very secure, and did not dream that she had been guilty of any carelessness regarding them.

She knew, also, that up to the evening of Louis' last declaration to her, Mona had no proof to produce, and, supposing that she had but just returned from Havana, she did not imagine that either of the lawyers or Ray had seen her to learn anything new from her, even if she had discovered anything.

"Well, I should like to see them," she responded, contemptuously, but with a confident air that would have been very irritating to one less assured than Mr. Corbin.

He quietly drew a folded paper from his breast-pocket, opened and smoothed it out, and going to the woman's side, held it before her for examination.

She was wholly unprepared for the appalling revelation that met her eyes, and the instant that she realized that the paper was the identical certificate, which she believed to be in her own possession, she lost every atom of her color. A cry of anger and dismay broke from her, and snatching the parchment from the lawyer's hand, she sprang to her feet, crying, hoarsely:

"Where did you get it? how did it come into your possession?"

"Pray, madame, do not be so excited," Mr. Corbin calmly returned, "and be careful of that document, if you please, for it is worth a great deal to my young client. Mr. Raymond Palmer supplied me with this very necessary link in the evidence required to prove Miss Montague's identity."

"And how came Raymond Palmer to have a paper that belonged to me?" demanded Mrs. Montague, turning to him with an angry gleam in her eyes. "I have supposed him to be a gentleman—he must be a thief, else he never could have had it."

"You are mistaken in both assertions, Mrs. Montague," Ray responded, with cold dignity. "In the first place, the paper does not belong to you; it rightly belongs to your husband's daughter. In the second place, it came into my possession in a perfectly legitimate manner. On the day of your high-tea I came here a little late, if you remember. Your private parlor above was used as the gentleman's dressing-room, and I found that document lying underneath the draperies of the bay-window. I accidentally stepped upon it. It crackled beneath my feet, and it was but natural that I should wish to ascertain what was there. When I discovered the nature of the paper I felt perfectly justified in taking charge of it, in the interests of my promised wife, and so gave it into Mr. Corbin's hands."

Mrs. Montague sat like one half stunned during this explanation, for she readily comprehended how this terrible calamity had happened to overtake her. She realized that the certificate must have slipped from her lap to the floor while she was examining the other contents of that secret compartment; and, when she had been so startled by Mona's rap and upset the table, it had been pushed underneath the draperies, while, during her hurry in replacing the various articles, she had not noticed that it was missing.

"Yes, I understand," she said, in a low, constrained, despairing tone. "You have balked me at last, but," throwing back her head like some animal suddenly brought to bay, "what are you going to do about it?"

"Only what is right and just, Mrs. Montague," courteously responded Mr. Corbin.

"Right and just!" she repeated, with bitter emphasis. "That means, I suppose, that you are going to compel me to give up my fortune."

"The law decrees that children shall have their father's property, excepting, of course, a certain portion," said the lawyer.

"A paltry one-third," retorted Mrs. Montague, angrily.

"Yes, unless the heirs choose to allow something more to the widow. Perhaps my client—"

Mrs. Montague sprang to her feet, her face flaming with sudden passion.

"Do you suppose I would ever humiliate myself enough to accept any favor from Mona Forester's child?" she cried, as she paced the floor excitedly back and forth, "Never! I will never be triumphed over. I will defy you all! Oh, to be beaten thus!—it is more than I can bear."

Mrs. Montague's fury was something startling in its bitterness and intensity, and the three gentlemen, witnessing it, could not help feeling something of pity for the proud woman in her humiliation, even though they were disgusted with her vindictiveness and selfishness.

"Defiance will avail you nothing, Mrs. Montague; an amicable spirit would conduce far more to your advantage," Mr. Corbin remarked. "And now I advise you," he added, "to quietly relinquish all right and title to this fortune excepting, of course, your third, and trust to your husband's daughter and her counsel to make you such allowance as they may consider right. If you refuse to do this we shall be obliged to resort to the courts to settle the question of inheritance."

"Take the matter into the courts, then," was the passionate retort. "I will defy you all to the bitter end. And you," turning with blazing eyes and crimson cheeks to Ray, "I suppose you imagined that you were to win a princely inheritance with your promised wife; that when you found this piece of parchment you would thus enable Mona Forester's child to triumph over the woman who hated her with a deadly hatred. Not so, I assure you, for my vengeance is even more complete than I ever dared to hope, and your 'promised wife,' my fine young man, will never flaunt her colors in triumph over me here in New York, for her reputation has been irretrievably ruined, and the city shall ring with the vile story ere another twenty-four hours shall pass."

"Don't be too sure, madame; don't be too sure that you're going to down that clever little lady just yet," were the words which suddenly startled every one in the room, and the next instant the door swung wide open to admit a new actor in the drama.

A brisk, energetic little man entered the room, and going directly to Mrs. Montague's side, he laid his hand upon her shoulder.

"Madame, you are my prisoner," he added, in a more quiet but intensely satisfied tone.

"What do you mean, sir?" haughtily demanded the woman, as she shook herself free from his touch. "Who are you, and how came you here?"

"Well, we'll take one question at a time, if you please, madame," the new-comer returned. "First, what do I mean? Just what I say—you are my prisoner. I arrest you for obtaining money under false pretenses—for theft, for abduction. The proof of the first charge is right here in my hand. Look!"

He opened his palm and disclosed to the horrified woman's gaze and to the amazement of the other occupants of the room two beautiful crescents of blazing diamonds.

"Heavens! where did you get them? Oh, I know—I know!" shrieked the unhappy creature, cowering and shrinking from the sight as if blinded by it, and sinking upon the nearest chair.

"Yes, I reckon you do," grimly remarked Detective Rider, for it was he, "and this clears up the Bently affair of Chicago, for here, on the back of the settings, is the very mark which Mr. Arnold of that city put upon them more than three years ago. Well, so much for that charge. Now, if Mr. Palmer will just step this way, maybe he'll recognize some of his property, and we'll explain the second and third charges."

Ray looked astonished as he went forward, but he was even more so when Mr. Rider held up before him an elegant diamond cross, which he instantly identified as one of the ornaments which the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck had selected on that never-to-be-forgotten day when he was decoyed into Doctor Wesselhoff's establishment and left there a prisoner, while the woman made off with her booty.

"Where did you get it?" he exclaimed, while Mrs. Montague fell back among the cushions of her chair and covered her face with her trembling hands, utterly unnerved.

"That remains to be explained, together with some other things which are no less interesting and startling," the detective returned, with an air of triumph. "And now," raising his voice a trifle, "if a certain little lady will show herself, I imagine we can entertain you with another act in this strange comedy."

As he spoke the drawing-room door, which the man had left slightly ajar when he entered, was pushed open, and Mona made her appearance with her arms full of clothing.

She glided straight to the detective's side, and handed him something which, with a dextrous movement, he clapped upon Mrs. Montague's bowed head.

It was a wig of rich, dark-red hair, which fell in lovely rings about the woman's fair forehead and white neck.

She lifted her face with a cry of terror at Mr. Rider's act, and behold! the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck was before them!

Ray knew at once why Mrs. Montague had looked so strangely to him as she arose to greet him when he entered.

Her face had been artistically made up, with certain applications of pencil and paint, to give her the appearance of being considerably older than she was. But he wondered how she happened to be so made up that morning.

"That is not all," Mr. Rider resumed, as he took a costly tailor-made dress from Mona's arm and held it up before his speechless auditors. "Here is the robe which was so badly rent at the time that Mrs. Vanderbeck escorted Mr. Raymond Palmer to the great Doctor Wesselhoff for treatment, while the fragment that was torn from it will fit into the hole. And here," taking another garment from Mona, "is a widow's costume in which the fascinating Mrs. Bently figured in Chicago, when she so skillfully duped a certain Mr. Cutler, swindling him out of a handsome sum of money, and giving him paste ornaments in exchange. No one would ever imagine the elegant Mrs. Richmond Montague and the lovely widow to be one and the same person, for they were entirely different in figure as well as face, the former being very slight, while the latter was inclined to be decidedly portly, as was also Mrs. Vanderbeck.

"But, gentlemen, that is also easily explained, as you will see if you examine these costumes, for there must be five pounds, more or less, of cotton wadding used about each to pad it out to the required dimensions. Clever, very clever!" interposed Mr. Rider, bestowing a glance of admiration upon the bowed and shivering figure before him. "I think, during all my experience, I have never had so complicated and interesting a case. I do not wonder that you look dazed, gentlemen," he went on, with a satisfied glance at his wide-eyed and wondering listeners, "and I imagine I could have surprised you still more if I had had time to examine a certain trunk which stands open up stairs in the lady's chamber. I think I could find among its contents a gray wig and other garments belonging to a certain Mrs. Walton, so called, and perhaps a miner's suit that would fit Mr. Louis Hamblin, alias Jake Walton, who in St. Louis recently tried to dispose of costly diamonds which he had brought all the way from Australia, for his rustic sweetheart—eh? Ha, ha, ha!" and the jubilant man burst into a laugh of infinite amusement.

"Truly, Mr. Rider, your discoveries are somewhat remarkable; but will you allow me to examine that cross?" a new voice here remarked, and Mr. Amos Palmer arose from a mammoth chair at the other end of the drawing-room, where he had been an unseen witness of and listener to all that had occurred during the last half hour.

It was he who had rung the bell just as Mona was about to enter Mrs. Montague's boudoir in search of her scissors, and who, upon being told that the lady was out, had said he would wait for her. He had called to ask his fiancee to go with him to select the hangings for the private parlor which he was fitting up for her in his own house.

His face, at this moment, was as colorless as marble; his eyes gleamed with a relentless purpose, and his manner was frigid from the strong curb that he had put upon himself.

At the sound of his voice Mrs. Montague lifted a face upon which utter despair, mingled with abject terror, was written. She bent one brief, searching glance upon the man, and then shrank back again into the depths of her chair, shivering as with a chill.



CHAPTER XIX.

HOW IT HAPPENED.

Mr. Rider passed Mr. Palmer the diamond cross, which he took without a word, and carefully examined, turning it over and over and scrutinizing both the stones and the setting with the closest attention, though Ray could see that his hands were trembling with excitement, and knew that his heart was undergoing the severest torture.

"Yes," he said, after an oppressive silence, during which every eye, except Mrs. Montague's, was fixed upon him, "the cross is ours—my own private mark is on the back of the setting. And so," turning sternly to the wretched woman near him, "you were the thief; you were the unprincipled character who decoyed my son to that retreat for maniacs, and nearly made one of me! Then, oh! what treachery! what duplicity! When you feared that the net was closing about you and you would be brought to justice, you sought to make a double dupe of me by a marriage with me, imagining, I suppose, that I would suffer in silence, if the theft was ever discovered, rather than have my name tarnished by a public scandal. So you have sailed under many characters!" he went on, in a tone of biting scorn. "You are the Mrs. Bently, of Chicago! the Mrs. Bent, of Boston; Mrs. Vanderbeck and Mrs. Walton, of New York; and the woman in St. Louis, who gave bail for the rascally miner, who tried to dispose of the unset solitaires. Fortunately those have been proven to be mine and returned to me; but where are the rest of the stones? I will have them, every one," he concluded, in a tone so stern and menacing that the woman shivered afresh.

"They were all together—they were all yours except two; but the cross, we—we—"

Mrs. Montague proceeded thus far in a muffled, trembling tone, and then her voice utterly failed her.

"You did not dare to try to sell too many at one time, and so you reserved the cross for future use," Mr. Palmer supplemented. "Perhaps you even intended to wear it under my very eyes, among your wedding finery. I verily believe you are audacious enough to do so; but, madame, it will be safe to say that there will be no wedding now, at least between you and me."

The man turned abruptly, as he ceased speaking, and left the room, looking fully a dozen years older than when, an hour previous, he had come there, with hope in his heart, to plan with his bride-elect how they could make their future home most attractive for her reception.

Ray felt a profound pity for his father, in this mortifying trial and disappointment, and he longed to follow him and express his sympathy; but his judgment told him that it would be better to leave him alone for a time; that his wounded pride could ill-brook any reference to his blighted hopes just then.

It may as well be related just here how Detective Rider happened to appear so opportunely, and how Mona found the robes in which Mrs. Montague had so successfully masqueraded to carry out her various swindling operations.

It will be remembered that Mona, after she had gathered up the keepsakes belonging to her mother and returned them to the table, had found another box upon the floor of Mrs. Montague's boudoir.

When she had removed the rubber band that held the cover in its place, her astonished eyes fell upon a pair of exquisite diamond crescents for the ears, and a cross, which, from the description which Ray had given her, she knew must have been among the articles stolen from Mr. Palmer.

Instantly it flashed across her what this discovery meant.

She felt very sure that Mrs. Montague must have been concerned in the swindling of Mr. Cutler, more than three years previous, and also of Mrs. Vanderbeck in Boston, besides in the more recent so-called Palmer robbery.

Still, there were circumstances connected with these operations that puzzled her.

Mrs. Bently, the crafty widow of Chicago, had been described to her as a stout woman with red hair. Mrs. Vanderbeck had also been somewhat portly, likewise Mrs. Walton, whom she had seen in St. Louis, and these latter were somewhat advanced in years also.

Mrs. Montague, on the contrary, was slight and sylph-like in figure; a blonde of the purest type, with light golden hair, a lovely complexion, with hardly the sign of a wrinkle on her handsome face.

But she did not speculate long upon these matters, for, having made this discovery, she was more anxious than before to be released from her place of confinement. So she had gone into the adjoining room, and tried the door leading into the hall.

That, too, as we know, she had found locked, and then, as she turned to retrace her steps, she was stricken spellbound by something which she saw upon the bed.

It was nothing less than a widow's costume, comprising a dress, bonnet, and vail, together with a wig of short, curling red hair!

Yes, Mrs. Montague was the "widow!" or woman in black whom Detective Rider had observed and followed only a little while previous. When she found that the man was on her track she had slipped into the carriage and ordered the driver to take her with all possible speed to a certain store on Broadway. Arriving there, she had simply passed in at one door and out of one opposite leading upon a side street, where she hailed a car, and, thoroughly alarmed, went directly home instead of going to the room where she usually made these changes in her costume.

Upon reaching her own door, she quietly let herself in with her latch-key, and going directly to her chamber, tore off her widow's weeds, and wig, and threw them hastily upon the bed. She hurriedly donned another dress, and was about to remove the cleverly simulated signs of age from her face, when she heard the bell ring, and went into the hall to ascertain who had called. We know the rest, how she recognized the lawyer, and imagined he had come again to annoy her further upon the subject of Mona Forester's child; how, almost at the same moment, she discovered Mona's presence in the house, and instantly resolved to lock her up until she could decide what further to do with her. And thus, laboring under so much excitement, she entirely forgot about the wrinkles and crow's-feet upon her face, and which so changed its expression.

The moment Mona saw the costume upon the bed everything was made plain to her mind. Mrs. Bently, of the Chicago and Boston crescent swindle, was no other than Mrs. Montague in a most ingenious disguise.

Glancing about the room for further evidences of the woman's cunning, she espied a trunk standing open at the foot of the bed, as if some one had been hastily examining the contents and forgotten to shut it afterward.

She approached it, and on top of the tray there lay the very dress of gray ladies' cloth which she had seen hanging in the closet of a certain room in the Southern Hotel in St. Louis. Then she knew, beyond a doubt, that Mrs. Montague had also figured as Mrs. Walton, the mother of the miner, in that city.

But who was the miner?

Louis Hamblin, in all probability, although she had not dreamed of such a thing until that moment.

"It is very strange that I should not have recognized Mrs. Montague, in spite of the white hair and the spotted lace vail," she murmured, thoughtfully. But after reflecting and recalling the fact that even the woman's eyebrows had been whitened and the whole expression of the face changed by pencil lines, to simulate wrinkles and furrows, and then covered with a thickly spotted vail, she did not wonder so much.

She was amazed and appalled by these discoveries, and trembling with excitement, she resolved to learn more, if possible.

She lifted the lid of the hat-box, at one end of the tray, and there lay the very bonnet and vail that the woman had worn in St. Louis, and also the wig of white hair.

"What a wretched creature!" she exclaimed, in a horrified tone. Then wondering if Ray might not have come, while she had been there, she flew back to the window in the other room to look for him.

Yes, his carriage was standing before the door, and he would soon find means to release her, she thought.

But moment after moment went by, and no one came, while the continuous murmur of voices in the room below made her wonder what was going on there.

Presently, however, her attention was attracted to a man who was sauntering slowly along the opposite sidewalk, and she was sure she had seen him somewhere before, although, just at first, she could not place him.

"Why!" she exclaimed, after studying his face and figure a moment, "it is Mr. Rider. Can it be possible that he suspects anything of the mystery concealed in this house? At any rate, he is just the man that is needed here at this time."

She tapped lightly on the pane to attract his attention.

He stopped, glanced up, and instantly recognized Mona, nodding and lifting his hat to indicate that he did so.

She beckoned him to cross the street, and then cautiously raised the window. He was beneath it in a moment.

"Come in, Mr. Rider, and come directly up stairs to me," she said, in a low tone. "I have been locked in this room, and I have made an important discovery which you ought to know immediately."

He nodded again, his keen eyes full of fire, turned, ascended the steps, and pulled the bell.

Mary sighed heavily as she bent her weary steps, for the fifth time, up the basement stairs to answer his imperative summons.

"Is your mistress at home?" Mr. Rider inquired, in a quick, business-like tone.

"Yes, sir; but she is engaged with callers," the girl replied.

"So much the better," returned the detective; then, bending a stern look on her, he continued: "I am an officer; I have business in this house; you are to let me in and say nothing to any one. Do you understand?"

Mary grew pale at this, and fell back a step or two from the door, frightened at the term "officer."

Mr. Rider took instant advantage of the situation and stepped within the hall.

"Don't dare to mention that I am here until I give you leave," he commanded, authoritatively, and then ran nimbly and quietly up stairs.

It was the work of but a moment to find the room where Mona was confined, turn the key, and enter.

"What does this mean, Miss Richards?" he asked, regarding her curiously. "How do you happen to be locked up like a naughty child?"

"I will explain that to you by and by; but first let me show you these."

She uncovered the box which contained the crescents and cross, and held the gleaming diamonds before his astonished eyes.

The man was so utterly confounded by the unexpected sight that for a moment he gazed at them with a look of wonder on his face.

"Zounds! where did you get them?" he cried, breathlessly.

Mona briefly explained regarding the accident to the table, which had resulted in her discovering the secret compartment with its treasures.

"Clever! clever!" the man muttered, as his eyes fastened upon the table and he comprehended the truth. "Well, well, young lady, you've done a fine stroke of business this day, and no mistake! These are the real articles, no paste or sham to fool me this time," he added, as he lifted the crescents from the box. "But—when—Mrs. Richmond Montague!—who'd have thought it?"

"This isn't all, Mr. Rider," Mona continued, in a whisper, for she feared Mrs. Montague might catch the sound of their voices.

"What! more discoveries!" the man exclaimed, all alert again, as he shut the box and slipped it into his pocket.

"Yes, step this way, if you please," and leading him to the door of Mrs. Montague's chamber, she pointed at the costume lying upon the bed.

The quick eyes took it all in at a glance, and his face lighted with a swift flash of triumph.

"The Bently affair—the Vanderbeck swindle—the Palmer robbery! Clever! clever!" he muttered, as he seized the costume, shook out its folds, discovered the thick layers of padding about the waist and hips, and eyed it with intense satisfaction. Then he revealed two rows of firm, white teeth in a broad smile, as he snatched up and twirled that dainty red wig upon his hand, examining it with a critical and admiring eye.

"And this, also," continued Mona, going to the trunk and lifting from it the tailor-made costume of gray ladies' cloth.

"Aha! ha!" chuckled Mr. Rider. "Really, Miss Richards, if you were only a man we might make a right smart detective of you. This is the very dress we have been wanting, and here is the rent. Have you still the fragment that you showed me in St. Louis?"

"Yes, it is here in my purse," Mona answered, drawing it from her pocket, and, taking the piece of cloth from it, she handed it to him.

"Here, too, is the gray wig worn by Mrs. Walton," she went on, as she lifted the lid of the hat-box and revealed its contents.

"Yes; true enough! and I'll wager that this trunk contains some other disguises which we should recognize," he responded. "But," he added, "we have enough for our purpose just now, and we will defer further examination until later. Now, Miss Richards, I am going down stairs to confront that woman with this stolen property. You follow me, but remain in the hall until I give you a signal, then come forward with these disguises. Have you any idea who is below calling on her ladyship?" he asked, in conclusion.

"No; but I am very sure that Mr. Raymond Palmer is somewhere in the house, for he was to call for me, and his carriage is at the door."

"I am glad to know that," the man cried, "and now I will make quick work of this business."

He turned and left the room with a quick step, and going directly below entered the drawing-room, just as Mrs. Montague was rudely taunting Ray about Mona.

The young girl gathered up the various articles of clothing and followed him, and we know what occurred after that.



CHAPTER XX.

MRS. MONTAGUE EXPLAINS.

It would be difficult to describe the abject distress of the wretched woman, whose career of duplicity and crime had been so unexpectedly revealed and cut short.

She was the picture of despair, as she sat crouching in the depths of her luxurious chair, her figure bowed and trembling, her face hidden in her hands.

There was a silence for a moment after Mr. Amos Palmer left the room; then Mr. Rider, who had been curiously studying his prisoner while the gentleman was speaking, remarked:

"It is the greatest mystery to me, madame, how, with the large fortune which you have had at your disposal, you could have wished to carry on such a dangerous business. What could have been your object? Surely not the need of money, nor yet the desire for jewels, since you have means enough to purchase all you might wish, and you tried to sell those you stole. One would almost suppose that it was a sort of monomania with you."

"No, it was not monomania," Mrs. Montague cried, as she started up with sudden anger and defiance; "it was absolute need."

"Really, now," Mr. Rider remarked, regarding her with a peculiar smile, "I should just like to know, as a matter of curiosity, how much it takes to relieve you from absolute need. I have supposed that you were one of the richest women in New York."

Mrs. Montague flushed a sudden crimson, and darted a quick, half-guilty look at Mr. Corbin. Then she turned again to the detective.

"Did you?—and so did others, I suppose!" she cried, with a short, scornful laugh. "Well, then, let me tell you that until I set my wits at work my income was only about twenty-five hundred dollars a year; and what was that paltry sum to a woman with my tastes?

"I do not care who knows now," she went on, with increasing excitement; "I have been humiliated to the lowest degree, and I shall glory in telling you how a woman has managed to outwit keen business men, sharp detectives, and clever police. In the first place, those crescents were presented to me at the time of my marriage. They are, as you have doubtless observed, wonderful jewels—as nearly flawless as it is possible to find diamonds. When I went to Chicago I was poor, for I had been extravagant that year and overdrawn my income. Money I must have—money I would have; and then it was that I attempted, for the first time, to carry out a scheme which I had planned while I was abroad the previous year. I had ordered a widow's outfit to be made, and padded in a way to entirely change my figure. I also purchased that red wig. While in Paris I learned the art of changing the expression of my face, by the skillful use of pencils and paint, and thus, dressed in my mourning costume with my eyebrows and lashes tinged to match my false hair, no one would ever have recognized me as Mrs. Montague.

"I had also provided myself, while in Paris, with several pairs of crescents, the exact counterparts, in everything save value, of the costly ones in my possession. I need not repeat the story of my success in getting money from Justin Cutler—you already know it; but I was so elated over the fact that I immediately went on to Boston, where I won even a larger sum from Mrs. Vanderheck."

"Yes; but how did you manage to change the jewels in that case, since you were with Mrs. Vanderheck from the time you left the expert until she paid you the money for them?" inquired Mr. Rider, who was deeply interested in this cunningly devised scheme.

"That was easily done," Mrs. Montague returned. "I had the case in my lap, and the duplicate crescents in my pocket. It required very little ingenuity on my part to so engage Mrs. Vanderheck's attention that I could abstract the real stones from the case and replace them with the others. Regarding the Palmer affair," she continued, with a glance of defiance at Ray, "it only required a few lines and touches to my face to apparently add several years to my age and change its expression; and, with my red hair and the change in my figure, my disguise was complete."

"And the name," interposed Ray, regarding her sternly; "you had a purpose in using that."

"Certainly, and the invalid husband also," she retorted, with a short, reckless laugh. "I had a purpose, too, in calling the elder Mr. Palmer's attention to the profusion of diamonds worn by Mrs. Vanderheck upon the evening of Mrs. Merrill's reception. You can understand why, perhaps," she added, sarcastically, and turning to the detective.

He merely nodded in reply, but muttered under his breath, with a kind of admiration for her daring:

"Clever—clever, from the word 'go.'"

"With a wig of white hair, a few additional wrinkles, and the sedate dress of a woman of sixty, I passed as Mrs. Walton, the mother of a lunatic son. It was not such a very difficult matter after all," she added, glancing vindictively at Ray: "the chief requirement was plenty of assurance, or cheek, as you men would express it. My only fear was that the diamonds would be missed before we were admitted to the doctor's house."

"When did you take that package from my pocket?" Ray demanded, with some curiosity. "Was it when I leaned forward to assist you about your dress?"

The woman's lips curled.

"And run the risk of being detected before leaving the carriage after all my trouble? No, indeed," she scornfully returned. "My coup de grace was just after ringing Doctor Wesselhoff's bell, while we stood together on the steps; the package was not large, though valuable, and it was but the work of a moment to transfer it from your pocket to mine, while you stood there with your arms full."

Ray regarded her wonderingly. She must have been very dextrous, he thought, and yet he remembered now that she had turned suddenly and brushed rather rudely against him.

"And in St. Louis—" Mr. Rider began.

Mrs. Montague flushed, and a wary gleam came into her eye.

"Yes, of course," she interrupted, hastily; "I was also the Mrs. Walton, of St. Louis. It was very easy to hire an extra room under that name."

"And your agent was—who?" continued Mr. Rider.

"That does not matter," she retorted, sharply. "You have found me out. I have recklessly explained my own agency in these affairs, but you will not succeed in making me implicate any one else."

"Very well; we will question you no further upon that point now," said the detective; "but it does not take a very wise head to suspect who was your accomplice, and I imagine it will not take a great deal of hunting, either, to find him," and Mr. Rider resolved to make a bee line for the Fall River boat the moment he could get through with his business there. "And now, gentlemen," he resumed, turning to the lawyers and Ray, "I think we'll close this examination here, and I'll take my prisoner into camp."

A cry of horror burst from Mrs. Montague's blanched lips at this remark.

"You cannot mean it—you will not dare to take me to a vile jail," she exclaimed, in tones of mingled fear and anger.

"Jails were made for thieves, swindlers, and abductors," was the laconic response.

The woman sprang to her feet again, and shot a withering glance at him.

"I go to a common prison? never!" she said, fiercely, and with all the haughtiness of which she was capable.

"The fact of your having figured as a leader in high life, madame, does not exempt you from the penalty of the law, since you have already declared yourself guilty of the crimes I have named," coolly rejoined the detective.

"Oh, I cannot—I cannot," moaned the wretched woman, wringing her hands in abject distress. Then her glance fell upon Mona, who had quietly seated herself a little in the background, after the detective had relieved her of the clothing which she had brought into the room.

"You will not let them send me to prison—you will not let them bring me to trial and sentence me to such degradation," she moaned, imploringly.

Mr. Rider regarded her with amazement and supreme contempt at this servile appeal, for so it seemed to him.

"How can you expect that Miss Richards will succor you after your heartless and wicked treatment of her?" he demanded more sharply than he had yet spoken to her.

"Because, Mr. Rider," Mona gently interposed, "she bears a name she knows I am anxious to save from all taint or reproach; because she was the wife, and I the only child, of Walter Richmond Montague Dinsmore."

The detective gave vent to a long, low whistle of surprise.

"Zounds! can that be possible?" he cried, as he turned his wondering glance upon the lawyers.

"Yes," said Mr. Corbin, "it is the truth, and, of course, it is time that it should be revealed. I have known that Mrs. Richmond Montague and Mrs. Walter Dinsmore were one and the same person ever since the death of Mr. Dinsmore. The lady came to me immediately after that event and requested me to ascertain if he had made a will. I instituted inquiries and learned that he had tried to do so, but failed to sign it. She then revealed to me that she was the wife of Mr. Dinsmore, but that they had separated only a year after their marriage, although he had allowed her an annual income of twenty-five hundred dollars for separate maintenance. She produced her certificate and other proofs that she was his lawful wife, and authorized me to claim his fortune for her, but stipulated that she was not to appear personally in the matter, as she did not wish to be identified as Mrs. Dinsmore, after having appeared in New York society as Mrs. Montague. She absolutely refused to make her husband's niece—or supposed niece—any allowance, although I felt that it was cruel to deprive the young lady of everything when she had been reared in luxury and expected to be the sole heir, and I tried to persuade her to settle upon her the same amount that she herself had hitherto received from Mr. Dinsmore. All my arguments were without avail, however, and I was obliged to act as she required. You all know the result; Miss Mona was deprived of both fortune and home, and Mrs. Montague, as she still wished to be known, suddenly became, in truth, the rich woman she was supposed to be previously."

"Did you know of this?" Mr. Rider asked, turning to Mr. Graves.

"I knew that a woman claiming to be a Mrs. Dinsmore had secured the fortune which should have been settled upon this young lady; but I did not know that Mrs. Montague was that woman until Miss Dinsmore, as I suppose we must now call her"—with a smile at Mona—"returned from the South. Until then I also believed that she was only the niece of my friend. If I had ever suspected the truth you may be very sure that I should have fought hard to establish the fact."

"I suspected the fact when Miss Mona came to me, bringing her mother's picture, and told me her story," Mr. Corbin here remarked. "I was convinced of it after I had paid a visit to and made some inquiries of Mrs. Montague—"

"Ha!" that woman interposed as she turned angrily upon Mona, "then you did make use of that torn picture after all!"

"I took it to an artist, had it copied, then gave the pieces to Mary to be burned, as you had commanded," Mona quietly replied.

"Oh! how you have fooled me!" Mrs. Montague exclaimed, flushing hotly. "If I had only acted upon my first impressions, I should have sent you adrift at once—I should not have tolerated your presence a single hour; but you were so demure and innocent that you deceived me completely, and I never found you out until the morning after my high-tea. Then I understood your game, and resolved to so effectually clip your wings that you could never do me any mischief."

Mona started at this last revelation, and light began to break upon her mind.

"How did you find me out?" she inquired, in a low tone.

"I had a letter telling me that my seamstress, who called herself Ruth Richards, was no other than Mona Montague—the last person in all the world whom I would have wished to receive into my family—and that she was having secret meetings with Raymond Palmer."

"Who wrote that letter?" Mona demanded, with heightened color.

"I do not know—it was anonymous; but I was convinced at once that you were Mona Montague, from the fact that you were having secret interviews with Ray Palmer, for his father had told me of his interest in her. Of course I instantly came to the conclusion that you were plotting against me, and, though I did not believe that you could prove your identity, or your mother's legal marriage, I feared that something might occur to trouble me in the possession of my fortune; so I resolved to marry you to Louis and settle the matter for all time."

"Then that was why you started so suddenly for the South?" Mona said, with flashing eyes.

"That was not my only reason for going," returned Mrs. Montague, flushing. "I—I had a telegram calling me to St. Louis, and so thought the opportunity a fine one to carry out my scheme regarding you."

"And did you suppose, for one moment, that you could drive me into a marriage with a man for whom I had not the slightest affection or even respect?" Mona demanded, bending an indignant look upon the unprincipled schemer.

"I at least resolved that I would so compromise you that no one else would ever marry you," was the malicious retort, as the woman turned her vindictive glance from her to Ray.

"Nothing could really compromise me but voluntary wrong-doing," Mona answered, with quiet dignity, "and your vile scheme was but a miserable failure."

"I do not need to be twitted of the fact," Mrs. Montague impatiently returned. "My whole life has been a failure," she went on, her face almost convulsed with pain and passion. "Oh! if I had only destroyed that marriage certificate you would never have triumphed over me like this; you would never have learned the truth about yourself."

"Oh, yes, I should," Mona composedly returned, "and even my trip to New Orleans resulted advantageously to me."

"How so?" questioned her enemy, with a start, and regarding her with a frown.

"An accident revealed to me, on the last night of our stay there, the whole truth about myself. Up to that time I was entirely ignorant of the fact that my supposed uncle was my father, for I knew nothing about the discovery of the certificate until my return from Havana."

"What do you mean?—what accident do you refer to?" Mrs. Montague asked.

"The day I was eighteen years old I asked my father some very close questions regarding my parentage, of which I had been kept very ignorant all my life. Some of them he answered, some of them he evaded, and, on the whole, my conversation with him was very unsatisfactory; for I really did not know much more about myself and my father and mother at its close than at its beginning.

"On the same day he gave me a small mirror that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette, and which, he said, had been handed down as an heirloom in my mother's family for several generations. This mirror he cautioned me never to part with; and so, when I went South with you, I packed it with my other things in my trunk. That last evening in New Orleans, while removing and repacking some clothing I dropped the book containing my mirror. When I picked it up I discovered that it contained a secret drawer in its frame. In the drawer there were some letters, a box containing two rings belonging to my mother and a full confession, written by my father upon the very day that he had presented me with the royal keepsake.

"So," Mona concluded, "you perceive that even had you destroyed the certificate proving their marriage, I should have other and sufficient proof that I was the child of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Dinsmore."

"Oh! if I had only forced the sale of all his property and gone back at once to California, I should have escaped all this and kept my fortune," groaned the unhappy woman, in deep distress.

"Really, Mrs. Dinsmore, you are showing anything but a right spirit—" Mr. Corbin began, in a tone of reproof, when she interrupted him with passionate vehemence.

"Never address me by that name," she cried. "Do you suppose I wish to be known as the widow of the man who repudiated me? Never! That was why I adopted the name of Montague, and I still wish to be known as such. Ah!—but if I have to go to—Oh, pray plead for me!" she cried, turning again to Mona; "do not let them send me to prison."

Just at that moment Mr. Palmer's wan face appeared again at the rear door of the drawing-room.

He beckoned to Ray, who immediately left the room, and Mona, who had grown very thoughtful after Mrs. Montague's last appeal, left her seat and approached the lawyers.

"Mr. Graves—Mr. Corbin," she said, in a low tone, which only they could hear, "cannot something be done to keep this matter from becoming public? I cannot bear the thought of having my dear father's name become the subject of any scandal in connection with this woman. It would wound me very sorely to have it known that Mrs. Richmond Montague, who has figured so conspicuously in New York society, was his discarded wife; that she robbed me of my fortune, and why; that she—the woman bearing his name—was the unprincipled schemer who defrauded Mr. Justin Cutler and Mrs. Vanderheck, and robbed Mr. Palmer of valuable diamonds. I could not endure," she went on, flushing crimson, "that my name should be brought before the public in connection with Louis Hamblin and that wretched voyage from New Orleans to Havana."

"But, my dear Miss Dinsmore—" began Mr. Corbin.

"Please let me continue," Mona interposed, smiling faintly, yet betraying considerable feeling. "I think I know what you wished to remark—that she has had the benefit of all this money which she has obtained under false pretenses, and that she ought to suffer the extreme penalty of the law for her misdeeds. She cannot fail to suffer all, and more than any one could desire, in the failure of her schemes, in the discovery of her wickedness, and in the loss of the fortune of which she felt so secure. But even if she were indifferent to all this I should still beg you to consider the bitter humiliation which a public trial would entail upon me, and the reproach upon my father's hitherto unsullied name. If—if I will cause Mr. Cutler and Mrs. Vanderheck to be reimbursed for the loss which they sustained through Mrs. Montague's dishonesty, cannot you arrange some way by which a committal and a trial can be avoided?"

"I am afraid it would be defeating all law and justice," Mr. Corbin began again, and just at that moment Ray returned to the room, looking very grave and thoughtful.

Mona's face lighted as she saw him.

"Ray, come here, please, and plead for me," she said, turning her earnest face toward him; and he saw at once that her heart was very much set upon her object, whatever it might be.



CHAPTER XXI.

MRS. MONTAGUE TELLS HER STORY.

"What is it, Mona?" Ray inquired, as he went to her side. "You may be very sure that I will second your wishes if they are wise and do not interfere in any way with your interests."

Mona briefly repeated what she had already proposed to the lawyers, and Ray immediately responded that it was also his wish and his father's that as far as they were concerned all public proceedings against Mrs. Montague should be suspended.

"Come with me to another room where we can converse more freely," he added, "for I have a proposition to make to you in my father's name. Mr. Rider," raising his voice and addressing the detective, "will you allow Mrs. Montague to remain alone with Miss Dinsmore for a little while, as I wish to confer with you upon a matter of importance?"

The detective took a swift survey of the room before answering. It was evident that he had no intention of allowing his captive to escape him now after all his previous efforts to secure her.

"Yes," he replied, "I will go with you into the hall, if that will do."

He knew that in the hall he should be able to keep his eyes upon both doors of the drawing-room, and no one could pass in and out without his knowing it, while there was no other way of egress.

The four gentlemen accordingly withdrew, thus leaving Mona and Mrs. Montague by themselves.

Mona seated herself by a window, and as far as possible from the woman, for she shrank with the greatest aversion from her, while she felt that her own presence must be oppressive and full of reproach to her.

But the woman's curiosity was for the moment greater than her anxiety or remorse, and after a brief silence, she abruptly inquired:

"How did that detective find that box of diamonds?"

"He did not find them. I accidentally discovered them," Mona replied.

"You? What were you prowling about in my room for?" crossly demanded Mrs. Montague.

"I was simply looking for a pair of scissors which I had left there the day before we went South. But why did you lock me in the room, for I suppose it was you?"

"Because I was desperate," was the defiant response. "I had just learned how you had escaped from Louis, but I had not a thought of finding you here. When I saw you in my room, however, a great fear came over me that you would yet prove my ruin. I imagined that you had just arrived in New York, and had come here to take away your things, and were perhaps searching my room for proofs of your identity. So on the impulse of the moment I locked you in, intending to make my own terms with you before I let you go."

"Did you suppose, after my experience in New Orleans, that I would trust myself with you without letting some one know where I could be found?" Mona quietly asked.

"If I had stopped to think I might have known that you would not," the woman said, sullenly. "But how did you get out of that hotel in Havana?"

"Mr. Justin Cutler assisted me."

Mrs. Montague flushed hotly at the mention of that name.

"Yes, I know, but how?" she said.

Mona briefly explained the manner of her escape, then inquired, in a voice of grave reproach:

"How could you conspire against me in such a way? How could you aid your nephew in so foul a wrong?"

"I have already told you—to make our fortunes secure," was the cool retort.

Mona shuddered. It seemed such a heartless thing to do, to plan the ruin of a homeless, unprotected girl for the sake of money.

Mrs. Montague noticed it, and smiled bitterly.

"You surely did not suppose I bore you any love, did you?" she sneered. "I have told you how I hated your mother, and it is but natural that the feeling should manifest itself against her child, especially as you both had usurped the affections of my husband."

"Such a spirit is utterly beyond my comprehension," gravely said the girl, "when your only possible reason for such hatred of a beautiful girl was that my father loved and married her."

"Well, and wasn't that enough?" hotly exclaimed Mrs. Montague. "For years Walter Dinsmore's aunt had intended that he should marry me—that was the condition upon which he was to have her fortune—and I had been reared with that expectation. Therefore, it was no light grief when I learned by accident, three weeks after he sailed for Europe, that he had married a girl who had come to New York to earn her living as a milliner. They went abroad together and registered as Mr. and Mrs. Richmond Montague. I was wild, frantic, desperate, when I discovered it; but I kept the matter to myself. I did not wish Miss Dinsmore to learn the fact, for I had a plan in my mind which I hoped might yet serve to give me the position I so coveted. I persuaded Miss Dinsmore that it would be wise to let me follow Walter to Europe, and I promised her that if such a thing were possible, I would return as his wife. Six weeks after he sailed with his bride, I also left for Europe with some friends. I kept track of the unsuspicious couple for four months, but it was not until they settled in Paris for the winter that I had an opportunity to put any of my plans into action."

"If you please, Mrs. Montague, I would rather you would not tell me any more," Mona here interrupted, with a shiver of repulsion. "My father wrote out the whole story, and so I know all about it. You accomplished your purpose and wrecked the life of a pure and beautiful woman—a loved and loving wife; but truly I believe if my mother could speak to-day she would say that she would far rather have suffered the wrong and wretchedness to which she was subjected than to have exchanged places with you."

"Do you dare to twit me of my present extremity and misery?" cried Mrs. Montague, angrily.

"Not at all; I was not thinking of these later wrongs of which you have been guilty," Mona gently returned, "but only of the ruin which you wrought in the lives of my father and mother. I cannot think that you were happy even after you had succeeded in your wretched plots."

"Happy!" repeated the woman, with great bitterness. "For two years I was the most miserable creature on earth. I will tell it, and you shall listen; you shall hear my side of the story," she went on, fiercely, as she noticed that Mona was restless under the recital. "As I said before, when they settled in Paris for the winter I began to develop my plans. I went to a skillful costumer, and provided myself with a complete disguise, then hired a room in the same house, although I took care to keep out of the sight of Walter Dinsmore and his wife. One day he went out of the city on a hunting excursion, and met with an accident—he fell and sprained his ankle, and lay in the forest for hours in great pain. He was finally found by some peasants who bore him to their cottage, and kindly cared for him. His first thought was, of course, for his wife, and he sent a messenger with a letter to her telling of his injury. I saw the man when he rode to the door. I instinctively knew there was ill news. I said I knew Mrs. Montague, and I would deliver the letter. I opened and read it, and saw that my opportunity had come. Walter Dinsmore, with many sickening protestations of love, wrote of his accident, and said it would be some time before he should be able to return to Paris, but he wished that she would take a comfortable carriage the next day, and come to him if she felt able to do so. Of course I never delivered the letter, but the next day I went to Mona Forester, and told her that her lover had deserted her; that she was no wife, for their marriage had been but a farce; that he had not even given her his real name; that he was already weary of her, and she would never see him again, for he was pledged to marry me as soon as he should return to America.

"At first she would not believe one word of it—she had the utmost confidence in the man she idolized; but as the days went by and he did not return she began to fear there was some foundation for my statements. Then a few cunning suggestions to the landlord and his wife poisoned their minds against her. They accused her of having been living in their house in an unlawful manner, and drove her out of it with anger and scorn.

"She left on the fifth day after Walter's accident, and I hired the butler of the house to go with her and make it appear as if she had eloped with him. He carried out my instructions so faithfully that their sudden flitting had every appearance of the flight of a pair of lovers. When Walter received no answer from his wife, and she did not go to him, as he requested, he became very anxious, and insisted upon returning to Paris, in spite of his injury. Immediately upon his arrival he was told that his lady had eloped with the butler of the house, and the angry landlord compelled him to quit the place also.

"I did not set eyes on him again for more than two years, when he returned at Miss Dinsmore's earnest request, for she had not long to live. He did not seem like the same man, and apparently had no interest in life. When Miss Dinsmore on her death-bed begged him to let her see the consummation of her one desire he listlessly consented, and we were married in her presence, and she died in less than a month. Then he confessed his former marriage to me, and told me that he had a child; that her home must be with us, and to escape all scandal and remark we would go to the far West. I was furious over this revelation, but I concealed the fact from him, for I loved him with all my soul, and I would have adopted a dozen children if by so doing I could have won his heart. I consented to have you in the family, provided that you should be reared as his niece, and never be told of your parentage. He replied, with exceeding bitterness, that he was not anxious that his child should grow up to hate her father for his lack of faith in her mother, and his deep injustice to her.

"We went to San Francisco to live, but I hated you even more bitterly than I had hated your mother, and every caress which I saw my husband lavish upon you was like a poisoned dagger in my heart. But he never knew it—he never knew that I had had anything to do with the tragedy of his life, until more than a year after our marriage.

"My own child—a little girl—was born about ten months after that event; but she did not live, and this only served to make me more bitter against you; for, although my husband professed to feel great sorrow that she could not have lived to be a comfort to us and a companion to you, I knew that he would never have loved her with the peculiar tenderness which he always manifested toward you.

"When your mother fled from him and Paris she left everything that he had lavished upon her save what clothing she needed and money to defray necessary expenses during the next few months; and so after my marriage I found pocketed away among some old clothing belonging to my husband the keepsakes that he had given to her and also their marriage certificate. I took possession of them, for I resolved that if you should outlive your father you should never have anything to prove that you were his child; if I could not have my husband's heart I would at least have his money.

"One day a little over a year after our marriage, on my return from a drive, I was told that a man was waiting in the library to see me. Without a suspicion of coming evil, I went at once to ascertain his errand, and was horrified to find there the butler—the man whom I had hired to act as your mother's escort to London. He had been hunting for me for three years to extort more money from me, and had finally traced me from New York to San Francisco.

"He demanded another large sum from me. It was in vain that I told him I had paid him generously for the service he had rendered me. He insisted that I must come to his terms or he would reveal everything to my husband. Of course I yielded to that threat, and paid him the sum he demanded, but I might have saved the money, for Walter Dinsmore, who had that morning started for Oakland for the day, but changed his mind and returned while I was out, was sitting in a small alcove leading out of the library, and had heard the whole conversation.

"Of course there was a terrible scene, and he obliged me to confess everything, although he had heard enough to enable him to comprehend the whole, and then he sternly repudiated me; but, scorning the scandal which would attend proceedings for a divorce, he gave me a meager stipend for separate maintenance, and told me he never wished to look upon my face again. He settled his business, sold his property, and returned to New York with you and your nurse, leaving me to my fate. He forbade me to live under the name of Dinsmore, but I would not resume my maiden name, and so adopted that of Mrs. Richmond Montague. But I still treasured that certificate and my own also, for I meant, if I should outlive him, to claim his fortune, and also kept myself pretty well posted regarding his movements.

"Shortly after our separation my only sister died, and her son, Louis, was thus left destitute, and an orphan. I believed that I could make him useful to me, so I adopted him. We have roved a great deal, for we have had to eke out my limited income by the use of our wits. My best game, though, was with the crescents which Miss Dinsmore gave me as a wedding present, and which I had duplicated several times. Early last fall we came to New York, for in spite of all the past I still loved Walter Dinsmore, and longed to be near him.

"I felt as if the fates had favored me when I heard that he had died without making his will, and I knew from the fact that you were known only as his niece, Miss Mona Montague, that you must still be in ignorance of your real relationship toward him. So it was comparatively easy for me to establish my claim to his property. I did not appear personally in the matter, for I was leading quite a brilliant career here as Mrs. Richmond Montague, and I did not wish to figure as the discarded wife of Walter Dinsmore, so no one save Mr. Corbin even suspected my identity. If Walter Dinsmore had never written that miserable confession, or if I had at once turned all his property into money and gone abroad, or to California, I need never have been brought to this. As matters stand now, however, I suppose you will claim everything," she concluded, with a sullen frown.

Mona thought that if the law had its course with her she would need but very little of the ill-gotten wealth upon which she had been flourishing so extravagantly of late. But she simply replied, in a cold, resolute tone:

"I certainly feel that I am entitled to the property which my father wished me to have."

"Indeed! then you have changed your mind since the night when you so indignantly affirmed to Louis that you did not wish to profit by so much as a dollar from the man who had so wronged your mother," sneered her companion, bitterly.

"Certainly," calmly returned Mona, "now that I know the truth. My father did my mother no willful wrong, although in his morbid grief and sensitiveness he imputed such wrong to himself, and never ceased to reproach himself for it. You alone," Mona continued, with stern denunciation, "are guilty of the ruin of their happiness and lives; you alone will have to answer for it. You have been a very wicked woman, Mrs. Montague, not only in connection with your schemes regarding them, but in your corruption of the morals of your nephew. I should suppose your conscience would never cease to reproach you for having reared him to such a life of crime. You will have to answer for that also."

Mrs. Montague shivered visibly at these words, thus betraying that she was not altogether indifferent to her accountability.

But she quickly threw off the feeling, or the outward appearance of it, and tossing her head defiantly, she remarked:

"I do not know who has made you my mentor, Miss Dinsmore; but there is one thing more that I wish you to explain to me—how came that detective to be in my house?"

"He was passing in the street, and I asked him to come in," Mona replied.

"Indeed! and where, pray, did you make the acquaintance of the high-toned Mr. Rider?" sarcastically inquired Mrs. Montague.

"In St. Louis."

"In St. Louis!" the woman repeated, astonished.

"Yes. You doubtless remember the day that I rode with you and your nephew in the street-car, when you were both disguised."

"Yes, but did you know us at that time?"

"No, I only recognized the dress you had on."

"Ah! What a fool I was ever to wear it the second time," sighed the wretched woman, regretfully.

"I knew it was very like in both color and texture the piece of goods that Mr. Palmer had once shown me. I was almost sure when I saw that it had been mended that it was the same dress that Mrs. Vanderbeck had worn when she stole the Palmer diamonds, and immediately telegraphed to have the fragment sent to me."

"And Ray Palmer had it and had kept it all that time!" interposed Mrs. Montague, with a frown. "I hunted everywhere for it."

"He sent it to me by the next mail, and I began my hunt for the dress, although at that time I did not suspect that it belonged to you," Mona continued. Then she explained how, while assisting the chambermaid about her work, she had found the garment hanging in a wardrobe, and proved by fitting the fragment to the rent that her suspicions were correct.

"You will also remember," she added, "how you chided me a little later for going out without consulting you. I had been out to seek a detective to tell him what I had discovered."

"Ha! that was how you made Mr. Rider's acquaintance?" interrupted Mrs. Montague, with a start.

"Yes. He told me he was in St. Louis on business connected with that very case. He was very much elated after hearing my story, but when he went to make his arrest he found that Mrs. Walton and her so-called son had both disappeared. I was, of course, very much disappointed, but I never dreamed—"

"That I and my hopeful nephew were the accomplished sharpers," supplemented Mrs. Montague, with a bitter laugh. "Well, Mona Dinsmore, you have been very keen. I will give you credit for that—you have beaten me; I confess that you have utterly defeated me, and your mother is amply avenged through you. No doubt, you are very triumphant over my downfall," she concluded, acrimoniously.

"Indeed, I am not," Mona returned, with a sigh. "I do not think I could triumph in the downfall of any one, and though I am filled with horror over what you have told me, I am very sorry for you."

"Sorry for me!" repeated the woman, with skeptical contempt.

"Yes, I am truly sorry for you, and for any one who has fallen so low, for I am sure you must have seasons of suffering and remorse that are very hard to bear, while as for avenging my mother, I never had such a thought; I do not believe she would wish me to entertain any such spirit. I intend to assert my rights, as my father's daughter, but not with any desire for revenge."

Mona's remarks were here suddenly cut short by the return of the four gentlemen, and Mrs. Montague eagerly and searchingly scanned their faces as they gravely resumed their seats.



CHAPTER XXII.

MRS. MONTAGUE'S ANNUITY.

Mona, too, regarded the lawyers with some anxiety, for she felt extremely sensitive about having her father's troubles and past life become the subject of a public scandal.

Ray noticed it, and telegraphed her a gleam of hope from his tender eyes.

The proposition which he had made to the lawyers upon leaving the room was in accordance with his father's request.

Mr. Palmer had begged that all proceedings in the case of the robbery might be quashed.

"I would rather lose three times the amount that woman stole from us than to have all New York know the wretched truth," he said to Ray, after calling him from the drawing-room. "To have it known that she robbed us and then tried to fortify herself by a marriage with me! I could not bear it. I have made a fool of myself, Ray," he went on, with pitiable humility, "but I don't want everybody discussing the mortifying details of the affair. If you can prevail upon the lawyers to settle everything quietly, do so, and, of course, Rider being a private detective, and in our pay, will do as we say, and, my boy, you and I will ignore the subject, after this, for all time."

Ray grasped his father's hand in heartfelt sympathy as he replied:

"We will manage to hush the matter, never fear. I am very sure that Mona will also desire to do so, and though I should be glad to have that woman reap the full reward of her wickedness I can forego that satisfaction for the sake of saving her feelings and yours."

Then, as we know, he returned to the drawing-room where Mona called to him to come and plead for the same thing.

The lawyers were both willing, for Mona's sake, to refrain from active proceedings against Mrs. Montague if she would resign all Mr. Dinsmore's property; but Mr. Rider objected very emphatically to this plan.

"It has been a tough case," he said, somewhat obstinately, "and it is no more than fair that a man should have the glory of working it up. Money isn't everything to a person in such business—reputation is worth considerable."

They had quite a spirited argument with him; but he yielded the point at last, provided Mr. Cutler would consent, although not with a very good grace, and then they all went back to Mona and her unhappy companion.

But Mrs. Montague put a grave front upon her critical situation.

"Well, and have you decided the fate of your prisoner?" she inquired of Mr. Rider, with haughty audacity, although her face was as white as her handkerchief as she put the question.

"Well, madame," he retorted, with scant ceremony, "if it had been left with me to settle there would have been no discussion with you—you would be in the Tombs."

"Well?" she asked, impatiently, seeing there was more to be said about the matter, and turning to Mr. Corbin.

"We have decided, Mrs. Montague, that in the first place, you are to relinquish everything which you inherited from Mr. Dinsmore at the time of his death."

"Everything?" she began, interrupting him.

"Please listen to what I have to tell you, and defer your objections until later," remarked the lawyer, coldly.

"Yes, everything. You are also to give up all jewels of every description that you have in your possession to make good as far as may be the losses of those who have suffered through your dishonesty. You are then to pledge yourself to leave New York and never show yourself here again upon pain of immediate arrest, nor cause any of the revelations of this morning to be made public. Upon these conditions we have decided, for the sake of the feelings of others, to let you go free and not subject you to a trial for your crime—provided Mr. Cutler agrees to this decision."

"But—but I must have something to live on," the miserable woman said, with white lips. "I can't give up everything; the law would give me my third, and I ought to inherit much more through my child."

"The law would give you—a criminal—nothing," Mr. Graves here sternly remarked. "Let me but reveal the fact that Mr. Dinsmore wished to secure everything to his daughter, and how you defrauded her, and you would find that the law would not deal very generously with you."

"But I must have money. I could not bear poverty," reiterated the woman, tremulously.

"Mr. Graves—Mr. Corbin!" Mona here interposed, turning to them, "it surely becomes the daughter's duty to be as generous as the father, and—"

"Generous!" bitterly exclaimed Mrs. Montague.

"Yes, he was generous," Mona asserted, with cold positiveness, "for, after all the wrong of which you had been guilty, he certainly would have been justified if he had utterly renounced you and refused to make any provision for you. But since he did not, I will do what I think he would have wished, and, with the consent of these gentlemen," with a glance at Ray and the lawyers, "I will continue the same annuity that he granted to you."

"That is an exceedingly noble and liberal proposition, Miss Dinsmore," Mr. Corbin remarked, bestowing a glance of admiration upon her, "and with all my heart I honor you for it."

Mrs. Montague did not make any acknowledgment or reply. She had dropped her head upon her hands and seemed to be lost in her own unhappy reflections.

Mr. Graves and Mr. Corbin conferred together for a few moments, and then the former remarked:

"Mrs. Montague will, of course, wish to give these subjects some consideration, and meanwhile I will go to consult with Mr. Cutler regarding his interest in the matter."

He left immediately, and Mr. Corbin and Mr. Rider fell into general conversation, while Ray and Mona withdrew to the lower end of the drawing-room, where they could talk over matters unheard.

Mr. Graves was gone about an hour, and then returned accompanied by Mr. Justin Cutler himself.

After discussing at some length the question of Mrs. Montague being brought to trial he finally agreed to concur in the decision of the others.

"For Miss Dinsmore's sake I will waive all proceedings," he remarked, "but were it not for the feelings of that young lady," he added, sternly, "I would press the matter to the extent of the law."

Mrs. Montague shuddered at his relentless tone, but Mona thanked him with a smile for the concession.

Mrs. Montague then consented to abide by the conditions made by the lawyers, and, at their command, brought forth her valuable store of jewels to have them appraised and used to indemnify those who had suffered loss through her crimes.

Ray laid out what he thought would serve to make Mr. Cutler's loss good, selected what stones he thought belonged to his own firm, and then it was decided that the real crescents should be given to Mrs. Vanderheck if she wished them, or they should be sold and the money given to her.

Mrs. Montague was then informed that she must at once surrender all deeds, bonds, bank stock, etc., which she had received from the Dinsmore estate, and would be expected to leave the city before noon of the next day.

She curtly replied that she would require only three hours, and that she would leave the house before sunset. The house, having been purchased with Mr. Dinsmore's money, would henceforth belong to Mona, therefore she and Ray decided to remain where they were until her departure and see that everything was properly secured afterward.

Having decided that these matters should not be made public, nothing could be done with Louis Hamblin, and Mr. Rider, much against his inclination, was obliged to forego making the arrest on the Fall River boat.

Mrs. Montague hastened her preparations and left her elegant home on West Forty-ninth street in season to meet her nephew a little after the hour appointed in the morning. Mr. Corbin previous to this handed her the first payment of her annuity, and obtained an address to which it was to be sent in the future, and thus the two accomplished sharpers disappeared from New York society, which knew them no more.

The next evening Ray and Mona were talking over their plans for the future, in the cozy library in Mr. Graves' house, when the young girl remarked:

"Ray, would you not like to read the story that my father concealed in the royal mirror?"

"Yes, dear, if you wish me," her lover replied.

Mona excused herself and went to get it. When she returned she brought the ancient keepsake with her.

She explained how the secret drawer operated, showed him the two rings and the letters, then putting Mr. Dinsmore's confession into his hands, bade him read it; and this is what his eager eyes perused:

"MY DEAR MONA:—You who have been the darling of my heart, the pride of my life; you have just left me, to go to your caller, after having probed my heart to its very core. I can never make you know the bitterness of spirit that I experience, as I write these lines, for the questions you have just asked me have completely unmanned me—have made a veritable coward of me when I should have boldly told you the truth, let the consequence be what it would; whether it would have touched your heart with pity and fresh love for a sorrowing and repentant man, or driven you away from me in hate and scorn such as I experience for myself. You have just told me that I have made your life a very happy one; that you love me dearly. Oh, my darling, you will never know, until I am gone, how I hug these sweet words to my soul, and exult over them with secret joy, and you will never know, either, until then, how I long and hunger to hear you call me just once by the sacred name 'father,'

"Yes, Mona, I am your father; you are my child, and yet I had not the courage to tell you so, with all the rest of the sad story, this morning, for fear I should see all the love die out of your face, and you would turn coldly from me as you learned the great wrong I once did your mother.

"I told you that your father is dead. So he is, to you, and has been for many long years; for when I brought you from England, when you were only two years old, I vowed that you should never know that I was the man who, by my cowardice and neglect, ruined your mother's life; so I adopted you as my niece, and you have always believed yourself to be the child of my only and idolized sister. But, to begin at the beginning, I first met Mona Forester one day while attending my aunt to a millinery store, where she had her bonnets and caps made. She waited upon her, and I sat and watched the beautiful girl, entranced by her loveliness and winning manner. She was a cultured lady, in spite of the fact that she was obliged to earn her living in so humble a way.

"Her parents had both died two years previously, leaving her homeless and destitute, after having been reared in the lap of luxury. I saw her often after that, we soon learned to love each other, and it was not long before she was my promised wife.

"But my first sin was in not giving her my full name. I was afraid she might be shy of me, if she knew that I was the heir of the wealthy Miss Dinsmore, and so I told her my name was Richmond Montague. About that time, my studies being completed, my aunt wanted me to go abroad for a couple of years.

"She also wished me to marry the child of an intimate friend, and take her with me. She had been planning this marriage for years and had threatened, if I disappointed her, to leave all her money to some one else.

"Now comes my second sin against your mother. If I had been loyal and true, I should have frankly told my aunt of my love for Mona Forester, and that I could never marry another woman, fortune or no fortune. But I shirked the duty—I thought something might happen before my return to give me the fortune, and then I should be free to choose for myself; so I led Miss Dinsmore to believe that on my return I would marry Miss Barton. I wanted the fortune—I loved money and the pleasure it brought, but I did not want Miss Barton for a wife. She was proud and haughty—a girl bound up in the world and fashion, and I did love sweet and amiable Mona Forester.

"Now my third sin: I was selfish. I could not bear the thought of leaving my love behind, and so I persuaded her to a secret marriage, and to go to Europe with me. I never should have done this; a man is a coward and knave who will not boldly acknowledge his wife before the world. I hated myself for my weakness, yet had not strength of purpose to do what was right. We sailed under the name of Mr. and Mrs. Richmond Montague, and Mona did not know that I had any other; but I took care that the marriage certificate was made out with my full name, so that the ceremony should be perfectly legal.

"We were very happy, for I idolized my young wife, and our life for six months was one of earth's sweetest poems. We traveled a great deal during the summer, and then settled in Paris for the winter. We had rooms in a pleasant house in a first-class locality; our meals were served in our own dining-room, and everything seemed almost as homelike as if we had been in America.

"One day I took a sudden freak that I wanted to go hunting. Mona begged me not to go; she was afraid of fire-arms, and feared some accident. But I laughed at her fears, told her that I was an expert with a gun, and went away in spite of her pleadings, little thinking I should never see my darling again. I did meet with an accident—I fell and sprained my ankle very badly, and lay for several hours in a dense forest unable to move.

"Finally some peasants found me, and took me to their cottage, but it was too late to send news of my injury to Paris that night. But the next morning early I sent the man of the house—who was going through the city on his way to visit some friends for a week, with a letter to Mona, telling her to take a carriage and come to me. She did not come, and I heard nothing from her. I could not send to her again, for there was no one in the cottage to go, and no neighbor within a mile. I was terribly anxious, and imagined a hundred things, and at the end of a week, unable to endure the suspense any longer, I insisted upon being taken back to Paris in spite of the serious condition of my foot and ankle.

"But, oh, my child, the tidings that met me there were such as to drive the strongest mind distracted. The landlord told me that my wife had fled with the butler of the house. At first I laughed in his face at anything so absurd, but when he flew into a towering passion and accused me of having brought disgrace upon his house by living there unlawfully with a woman who was not my wife, I began to think there must be some truth in his statements. In vain I denied the charge; he would not listen to me, and drove me also from his dwelling.

"I was too lame and helpless to attempt to follow Mona, but I set a detective at work to find my wife, for I still had faith in her, and thought she might be the victim of the landlord's suspicions. The detective traced her to London, and brought me word that a couple answering the description of my wife and the butler had crossed the channel on a certain date, and had since been living under the same roof in London.

"Then I cursed my wife, and said I would never trust a human being again. I was a long time getting over my lameness, but I still kept my detective on the watch, and one day he came to me with the intelligence that the butler had deserted his victim, and the lady was ill, and almost destitute.

"That Mona should want or suffer, under any circumstances, was the last thing I could wish, even though I then firmly believed that she had deserted me; while the thought that my child might even lack the necessities of life, was sufficient incentive to make me hasten at once to her relief. But I have told you, Mona, that she was dead, and I found only a weak and helpless baby to need my care. The nurse told me that the lady had wanted to go to America several weeks previously, but her physician had forbidden her to attempt to cross the ocean. She told me that a gentleman had taken the room for her and had been very kind to her, but the lady had been very unhappy and ill most of the time, since coming to the house. I questioned her closely, but evidently Mona had made a confidante of no one, and she had lived very quietly, seldom going out, and seeing no one. I could not reconcile this with the fact of her having eloped with the butler, and I realized all too late that I should have come to her the moment I learned where she was, demanded an explanation, and at least given her a chance to defend herself. My darling might have lived, if I had done so, and my child would not have been motherless.

"I was frantic with grief, and tried to drown my sorrow by constant change of scene. I traveled for two years, and then was summoned home to my aunt, who was dying. She insisted that my marriage with Miss Barton should be immediately consummated, and I, too wretched to contest the point, let them have their way. Miss Dinsmore died soon afterward, but without suspecting my previous marriage. Then I confessed the truth to my wife, and told her of the existence of my child. I saw at once that she was deeply wounded upon learning of this secret of my life, but I never suspected how exceedingly jealous and bitter she was, or that she had any previous knowledge of the fact, until a little more than a year after our marriage, when I accidentally overheard a conversation between her and the man who had been her accomplice in ruining your mother's happiness and mine. That elopement, so called, had always seemed utterly inexplicable to me until then.

"I learned that day that Margaret Barton had known of my marriage with Mona Forester almost from the first, that she had followed us abroad, and came disguised into the very house where we were living; that she had intercepted my letter, telling Mona of my accident, and made the poor child believe that I had deserted her, and that I had not really married her, but simply brought her abroad with me to be the plaything of my season of travel, after which I was pledged to marry her, Margaret Barton. She repeated this cunning tale to the landlord, and then, when he drove my darling forth into the street, she hired the butler to follow her, and thus give her departure the appearance of an elopement. It was a plot fit to emanate only from the heart and brain of a fiend, and I wormed it out of her little by little, after the departure of her tool, who had traced her to this country, hoping to get more money for keeping her secret.

"I cannot, neither do I wish to describe the scene that followed this discovery. I was like a madman for a season, when I learned how I had been duped, how my darling had been wronged and betrayed, and driven to her untimely death, and I closed my heart and my doors forever against Margaret Barton. I settled an annuity of twenty-five hundred dollars upon her, then taking you, I left San Francisco. I came to settle in New York.

"You know all the rest, my Mona, but you cannot know how I have longed to own you, my child, and dared not, fearing to alienate your love by confessing the truth. I am going to conceal this avowal in the secret drawer of the mirror, that I have given you to-day, and some time you will read this story and perhaps pity and forgive your father for the culpable cowardice and wrong-doing of his early life. That woman stole the certificate of my first marriage and all the trinkets I had given your mother; but I swear to you that Mona Forester was my lawful wife—that you are our child, and in a few days I shall make my will, so stating, and bequeath to you the bulk of my fortune. I will also in that document explain the secret of this mirror so that you will have no difficulty in finding this confession, your mother's rings, and some letters which may be a comfort to you.

"Now, my darling, this is all; but I hope you will not love me less when you learn your mother's sad story and my weakness and sin in not boldly acknowledging her as my wife before the world. Oh, if I could hear but once, your dear lips call me 'father' I could ask no greater comfort in life—it would be the sweetest music I have ever heard since I lost my other Mona; yet it cannot be. But that God may bless you, and give you a happy life, is the earnest prayer of your loving father,

"WALTER RICHMOND MONTAGUE DINSMORE."

Ray was deeply moved as he finished reading this sad tale.

"It is the saddest story I ever heard," he said, as he folded the closely written sheets and returned them to Mona, "and Mr. Dinsmore must have suffered very keenly since the discovery of the great wrong done his wife, for his whole confession betrays how sensitive and remorseful he was."