REACHING the privacy of her room, Mrs. Osborn threw herself into a chair and cried. She felt relieved afterward and thought how foolish it was of her to have quarreled with Lord Avondale. Unlocking a small drawer of her writing-desk, she fondly scrutinized, with an absorbing and passionate glance, a late photograph of the blasi Englishman.

“Yes,” she said aloud, “I was very rude to Lenox. But I will make amends. He shall come to-night, and we shall be friends again. Of course the dear fellow can have the money for which he asked.”

Drawing some writing material toward her, she wrote the following letter:

“My own dear Lenox:—I am so sorry that we quarreled to-day. No, it was not your fault, but all my own. When I think of you, and how much we have been to each other, I wonder that I could ever have spoken so rudely to you. You will forgive me, will you not, dear?

“Oh, Lenox, I forget all else at times in trying to make you happy. You cannot know how much you are to me.

“Come to-night at eleven. I will admit you at the side door of my room. Will have the money you requested.

“With my heart’s best love, I am, all your own, Lucy.”

Laying the letter aside, she wrote a note to her husband, enclosing her personal check for five hundred dollars and requesting him to bring the currency that evening. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost four o’clock. Addressing two envelopes, one to Lord Avondale and the other to her husband, she hastily enclosed the letters and rang for her maid, requesting her to deliver them at once.

“I want the captain’s letter handed to him before the bank closes. Call at the bank first, and afterward on Lord Avondale at the hotel. If he is out, push it under the door of his room.”

The maid hurried away, and Mrs. Osborn turned to her toilet, determined to surpass herself, in point of beauty and fascinating allurements, when Avondale should call that evening. It was a question whether it was adoration or adorers that she courted most.

It was scarcely four o’clock when one of the bank clerks informed Hugh that Captain Osborn wanted to see him in his private room. As Hugh entered the apartments of the president, he noticed that his old friend was under a strain of great excitement. His face was very white and his hands trembled.

“Close the door, Stanton,” said Captain Osborn, with forced calmness. “Perhaps you had better turn the key. I have something of a very private nature to talk to you about.”

Hugh complied with his requests, and, as he seated himself, Captain Osborn handed him his wife’s letter. “You will observe,” said he, “the envelope is addressed to me. Please read the letter carefully.”

As Hugh perused the billet-doux, he discovered that clever Mrs. Osborn had at last entrapped herself, and, by mistake, had enclosed the letter for Avondale in the envelope addressed to her husband.

“My old friend,” said Hugh, after he had read the letter to the end, “I am not only heartily sorry for you, but I stand ready to do your bidding in any way within my power.” He held out his hand, which Captain Osborn grasped eagerly.

“Ah, Hugh,” he replied, huskily, “there are many sorrows in life, but those which have to do with the heart cause the most suffering. Happiness at best, where a woman is concerned, is usually coextensive with our ignorance. Do not think that I have been entirely blind in the months past. We all have sorrows, but it really seems to me that I have had my heart-strings tugged at rather more than my share. I should have killed that scoundrel of a fortune-hunter months ago; I would have done so, had it not been for little Harry,—poor little chap, I love him so tenderly that I don’t want the blot of murder on his family name,—it is not fair to bequeath dishonor to such a loving little fellow.” Hugh hardly knew what to say, the captain seemed so noble, so deserving of respect and pity. Presently he said: “Had we not better secure the letter written by your wi—Mrs. Osborn to you? It might help us to act more intelligently.”

“That’s right, Hugh, do not speak of her as my wife,” replied the captain. “I told you once that my wife could do no wrong; neither can she, for a woman ceases to be a wife when she dishonors her marriage vows. Go to the hotel and secure the other letter, if possible. I shall be very impatient for your return.”

Hugh left Captain Osborn alone in his room, and half an hour later returned.

“I found this letter, Captain, pushed partly under Lord Avondale’s door,” said he.

“It is Mrs. Osborn’s writing,” said the captain, as he scrutinized the superscription. “A military necessity compels me to open it,” he continued, and, after glancing it over, he handed it to Hugh. “Cash the check, and bring me the currency,” he said.

When Hugh returned to the room, the captain placed the money in his pocket, and then enclosed the Englishman’s letter in the envelope addressed to him, saying, “Seal it as carefully as you can, and push it under the door of his room at the hotel. I want the titled scoundrel to keep his appointment!”

It was after eleven o’clock that night when Captain Osborn, who had ever been most considerate and deferential to his wife, admitted himself with his private key to her boudoir, without ceremony. The pretty little room was brilliantly lighted. Mrs. Osborn and the Englishman occupied a dainty settee, a rare creation of a French upholsterer. Their faces were partially turned from the door through which the captain entered. Before them, on a small, richly-carved table, was a basket of fruit, some cake, and a bottle of wine.

“Pardon me for intruding,” said the captain, in a cold, metallic voice. With one startled impulse they turned, and saw standing before them the wronged husband.

“What, you here, Captain!” exclaimed his wife, angrily, “and unannounced? Why, how dare you, sir; how dare—” She could not finish the sentence. Her eyes fell before the keen, stern look of the old veteran.

“Yes, strange as it may seem, I, your own husband, under his own roof, venture to visit you; a privilege you have not encouraged me in, I admit, but one I insist upon in this instance.”

The captain spoke calmly, and, whatever internal emotion he might have felt was concealed behind a cold, gleaming smile of determination and sorrowful triumph.

Avondale permitted his eye-glass to fall from its accustomed place, and started to arise. “Ah, really, sir,” said he, “I must be going. It is getting so late, I—”

“Remain where you are, sir!” said the captain, in deep, resolute tones. There was an iron ring in his voice that startled the Englishman. “Late as it may be,” the captain went on, “you have been in this room less than fifteen minutes. Subterfuges are unavailing.”

Lucy Osborn raised her queenly head, and, with one resentful glance at the old captain, hissed, “Spying on your wife is hardly in keeping with the dignity of a financier.”

“I have surrendered dignity, Lucy, in the hope of saving you,” replied the captain, calmly.

Her eyes flashed an angry glance at him. “What do you mean?” she stammered. “I don’t quite—” She broke off in silence, as her eyes met his sorrowful and yet scornful glance. There was something in the searching gaze of her husband that seemed to read the very secrets of her soul. It stung her proud heart with remorse.

Turning to Avondale, the captain said: “I ought to have killed you long ago, before this liaison with Mrs. Osborn began. I should have shot you to death like some vile cur, d—— you, and would have done so but for my little son.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Avondale, now thoroughly alarmed. “Really, sir, you are mis-tak—”

“Stop!” cried the captain, fiercely, “do not add to your dastardly crimes by lying. I know all. Give me the letter—the one which Mrs. Osborn wrote you this afternoon—in which she promised to give you some money.”

Lord Avondale seemed to shrivel up before the captain’s emphatic demand. He nervously fumbled the letter from his pocket. The captain unceremoniously took possession of it.

“Really, sir,” stammered Avondale, “I am only a man, not a saint, you know, and these improprieties with Mrs. Osborn can hardly be considered as any fault of mine.” Mrs. Osborn turned toward her paramour, and a look of disgust flitted across her face. It began to dawn upon her that he was an arrant coward.

“Adam attempted to lay the blame on the woman in the Garden of Eden,” shouted the captain, in anger. “You, perhaps, are a gentleman by birth, but you are an infernal wretch by practice. Titled you may be, but at heart you are betrayer of the virtue of a weak woman. The nobility at your hands is a prostituted aristocracy; your admiration and attentions are an insult to all good women. Return to the shores whence you came, you contemptible scoundrel, and never again set foot on free America’s soil. Your mission was one of adventure and fortune-hunting. Release that noble girl, Ethel Horton, from the promise of marriage which you and your coterie of damnable conspirators have forced and inveigled her into making, or, by the Eternal, your bones shall bleach in Dead Man’s Hollow! Will you do this?”

“Yes, indeed—certainly,” stammered Lord Avondale, who was shaking from head to foot in cowardly fright.

“Then go!” fairly yelled the captain, “cur that you are, and, if you value your worthless life, never let me look into your licentious face again. I will look for you to-morrow morning at sunrise, and if I find you in this part of the State, by the living God, your life or mine shall pay the penalty.”