Mr. Austin Ambrose was pacing up and down, in tiger fashion, the extremely luxurious sitting-room, waiting for Blair to return from the Rivanis'; and Austin Ambrose was anything but tranquil and at ease.

Hitherto fate had played into his hands so completely that he had run his career of villainy as smoothly as a well-oiled piston-rod works in its cylinder, but the sight of Lottie in Naples, close to his elbow, rather upset him.

The countess had gone to her boudoir some half an hour since; but she had languidly dropped a few words indicating that she intended remaining up for Blair, and Austin Ambrose listened intently now and again to hear if Blair went straight to his or her room.

Presently he heard a step upon the stairs; it was Blair's, but heavier and slower than usual, and it stopped at Austin's door, and Blair knocked.

Austin was almost guilty of an exclamation of surprise as Blair entered, for he handsome face looked so haggard and wearied that it might have been the face of a haunted man.

"You're late," he said, speaking lightly. "Had a pleasant evening, I hope?"

Blair sank into a chair, and his head drooped upon his breast; then he looked up and motioned to the table, on which stood a liqueur stand.

"Mix me something—anything, there's a good fellow," and his voice was dry and hoarse. "A pleasant evening," he laughed grimly, "you shall judge for yourself. Austin, I have seen Lottie Belvoir!"

Austin Ambrose started, and he set the glass down with a little thud. Then he smiled.

"Not really!"

"Yes. I was right, and you were wrong; it was she whom I saw. Poor girl! Lottie—who used to be the brightest and gayest of them—in Naples, starving and in rags."

"It is very strange! The last I heard of her," said Austin, his face pale with suppressed excitement and fear, "she was traveling with a dramatic company. Did she tell you——"

"She would tell me very little or nothing," said Blair with a sigh.

Austin Ambrose drew a long breath. Lottie had stood firm, then!

"Little or nothing. Austin," suddenly, "did she ever apply to you for help?"

"To me?" he exclaimed, raising his brows. "Certainly not! Why do you ask?"

"Because she said that she had, and you had refused to assist her. But she was dreadfully incoherent, and I'm afraid that privation and trouble have upset her reason. She, poor girl, seemed possessed by some wild idea that she had injured me. She even feared that I should—strike her! When I offered her some money, and begged her to tell me where I could find her, she turned and bolted, and I lost her."

Austin Ambrose drew a breath of relief and mixed himself some brandy and water.

"Poor Lottie, she must be half mad! Thought she had injured you! Why, how could she do that?"

Blair shook his head.

"By no way that I know of. She behaved very strangely all through. She must be found to-morrow."

"Of course; and there's nothing easier. Don't make yourself uncomfortable about it, my dear Blair. I will set the police on her track at once, and we'll soon find her. But the meeting with poor Lottie hasn't spoiled your evening, I hope?"

Blair was silent for a moment, then he said, in a low voice:

"No, no; it was not that, painful as it was. I wish to Heaven it was no more! But—but—Austin, I have seen poor Margaret!"

Austin Ambrose sprung to his feet, and his hand slid like a snake into the bosom of his coat.

"Seen—seen——!" he exclaimed, hoarsely.

"Yes," said Blair, whose back was turned toward him, and who did not see his white face and the movement of his hand; "yes, I have seen her in a picture."

Austin Ambrose dropped into the chair again, and lifting the glass to his lips took a good draught.

"In a picture, my dear Blair! You—you startled me! In a picture! A face that resembled hers. My dear old fellow, you are too sensitive. You must, really you must, fight against these feelings. They are ruining your life. In a picture——"

"Yes; not a face like hers, but her very own. I saw a picture"—and he stood and held out his hand as if he were pointing to it—"of Margaret, of my poor darling herself—lying on the Long Rock at Appleford!" his voice broke, and he turned away.

Austin Ambrose looked at him.

"He is going mad!" he thought.

"My dear Blair, impossible! This is the freak of a mind overwrought by sorrow and too much dwelling on the past. It is impossible. Where did you see this wonderful picture? I should like to see it."

"I saw it at Prince Rivani's. You can see it, no doubt. Do you think I am dreaming? That I have conjured the picture from my own imagination? Do you think I am going mad?"

Austin Ambrose certainly did think so, but he said:

"No, no; certainly not. But—but——"

"You do think so. Let me give you direct evidence that I know what I am about," said Blair. "The picture is Prince Rivani's; he took me to his private room to see it; it is the talk of all Italy, Europe, for what I know. It is a magnificent picture, terrible, moving, to any one; but judge what effect it must have had on me when I say that it was the place itself, the face and figure themselves of my poor lost darling."

Austin Ambrose stared at him.

"And Prince Rivani showed you this! What did he tell you about it, its history and so on?"

"Nothing," said Blair, gloomily. "I was so startled that I was almost beside myself, and I was about to ask him the history of the picture, and by whom it was painted, when he—you will think I am mad now, Austin!—refused to tell me anything excepting that the picture was a famous one. And he brought the interview to an abrupt conclusion by challenging me to fight him——"

Austin Ambrose's face worked.

"Which you refused?" he said.

"For which I asked his reasons. He declined to give me any one, calling me a liar, and so——" he laughed, grimly—"provided me with an excuse for shooting him!"

"Well, and—and the artist, who is he?"

"It was not a man, but a woman—a girl," said Blair quietly and wearily.

Austin Ambrose started, and his eyes flashed. He saw it all in a moment. The picture had been painted by Margaret herself! The prince had fallen in love with her, she had told him her story, and the prince meant to avenge her.

"And—and this girl—this wonderful artist—where is she?"

He asked the question lightly enough, but his soul quaked as as Blair replied:

"Here, in Naples!"

"Here, in Naples?"

There was a moment's silence. Margaret here in Naples! Blair challenged by the prince! Any moment and his astute plans might be shattered at his feet.

He was not altogether a coward, but at the thought of the two narrow chances Blair had had of learning his—Austin's—villainy, he quivered from head to foot.

"And now you have it all," said Blair quietly. "Why Prince Rivani should want to fight me I cannot conceive, can you?"

"Yes," was the prompt reply.

Blair turned to him with weary surprise.

"The prince was an old lover of Margaret's."

The blood rushed to Blair's face, and his eyes flashed.

"An old lover? It is you who are mad! Margaret had no lover but me."

Austin Ambrose met his fierce gaze steadily.

"My dear Blair, I meant no kind of reproach against her! But think, is it not possible that the prince may have seen her before she met you? that, though nothing tangible may have passed between them, he may have fallen in love with her?"

"And she not tell me! Ah, how little you knew her!"

"She may not have thought it worth the telling! May have feared that you might think she was boasting of her conquest over a prince. But if you won't entertain this idea, what other reason can you find for his wanting to fight you? You know what these Italians are: they will fight for an idea—half a one! He may have got some inkling that you were her favored lover, he cannot possibly know that you married her, but he may see in you a rival, and these Italians consider it their duty to dispose of a rival in the most complete and expeditious way."

Blair leaned his head upon his hands.

"It is all a mystery," he said, wearily. "But the fact remains. I have undertaken to meet him to-morrow morning. You will be my second, of course, Austin? A General Somebody or other will call and make the arrangements presently."

Austin Ambrose got up and went to the window and rapidly mastered the situation. After all, Fate was working for him to the end! If the Prince Rivani would kindly kill Blair how easily the denouement would work out!

"I don't like this!" he said gloomily. "I am not thinking of myself, nor so much of you—for you are good at sword or pistol—but I am thinking of Vio——of the countess."

"Ah, yes!" said Blair with a sigh. "Poor Violet! And yet, after all——" he stopped, but the pause was significant. "I think I must go to the library, Austin," he said after a moment or two. "I have a few letters to write and papers to arrange. I may fall, you know."

"Oh, nonsense!" said Austin Ambrose. "Fall! You may be wounded in the arm, that's just possible——"

Blair laughed grimly.

"If the prince wounds me anywhere it will be through the heart," he said quietly. "He means business, and I shall not balk him. At any rate, I'll have a fight for my life," and with a laugh on his lips he went out of the room.

Austin Ambrose walked to the window and looked out at the night, letting the cold air blow upon his forehead. A fever seemed burning in all his veins. All this had fallen so suddenly that there seemed scarcely time to think: and he had to act, and at once.

He poured out some brandy and drank it slowly; then, after a glance at his face in the mirror, he forced it into its accustomed smooth serenity, and going along the corridor, knocked softly at the countess' boudoir.

She was seated in a low chair beside the fire, her head thrown back, her hands lying listlessly by her side; but she turned with an eager light in her eyes, that died out when she saw who it was.

"Oh, it is you; I thought it was Blair," she said. "Where is he?—not back yet?"

Austin Ambrose bit his lip, and a savage light shot into his eyes.

"Always Blair!" he said softly. "No; he is not in yet."

"And why do you come here at this unearthly hour?" she demanded, pettishly.

"Violet, I have come to answer a question you have often asked me, and I have often parried. I have come to demand of you the reward you have promised me for the services I have rendered you."

She looked up at him in silent astonishment

"Question—reward! What are you talking about? Why do you look so strange?"

"Do I look strange? Forgive me. It is the only time I have allowed my countenance to incommode you. Have you forgotten—is it necessary to remind you of your promise? Is it necessary to remind you for what that promise was given? Ah, yes, I suppose so. Men and women have short memories. Violet, have you forgotten the day I undertook that you should be Blair's wife?"

Her face paled, but she laughed.

"How melodramatic you are. Of course. I was a poor little woman who set her heart upon something, and you were the clever man who offered to help me. Pray do not look so serious."

"I cannot help my looks to-night," he said, quietly, "for to-night you and I stand face to face, soul to soul. Violet, you had set your heart upon gaining Blair, and I have got him for you. You promised me at the time that you would give me whatsoever I should ask, and I told you that some day I should come to claim my reward at your hands. I have come. I will not tell you all I have done for you. You may have conjectured how dark and vile the work has been—no matter. I have succeeded; you have been Blair's wife through my agency. I come to claim my reward!"

She bit her lip and tried to smile.

"Well, well, what is it? It is awfully late, why not wait until to-morrow? Blair may come in at any moment, and though there is no impropriety in our chatting in my own room, still—what is it? Is it money? Are you in difficulties? How much is it?"

"It is not money," he said gravely.

"What, then?" she said, impatiently.

"It is yourself!" he said, his eyes flashing into hers, his pale cheeks suddenly glowing with fire.