Carlita stood there for some moments resembling nothing so much as some magnificent statue, her countenance just as stony, her face just as colorless, her form just as rigid. If she felt anything whatever—any emotion of horror, contempt, or triumph—there was no evidence of it—not even in the tones of her voice when she spoke at last.

"I have no objection to paying you for the proof which I shall demand that you furnish," she said, quietly; "but you must understand that it must be convincing—it must mean conviction. Accomplish this, and I will add ten thousand to the amount already agreed upon; fail, and you receive nothing beyond payment for your secret. Is this satisfactory?"

She must have been unobserving, indeed, not to have seen the greedy roll of his beady eyes, the miserly clutching of his grimy fingers, as if he already felt the beloved gold in his too affectionate clasp.

And yet he bowed almost coldly, in his absolute control over himself.

"I have no fear of failure, senorita. Get him back to Mexico, and leave the rest to me," he said, indifferently. "I shall not regret to see him suffer for his crime, but a man must look to his own interest first."

A slight shiver of repugnance and contempt passed over her, but vanished quickly in the utter apathy that seemed to possess her.

She interrupted him almost before he had completed his sentence.

"Until after the—the trial, I shall expect your time to be mine, your services constantly at my disposal. I shall expect you to remain in New York until I tell you to go to Mexico, and to give all information that may be required."

"I understand that to be in the bargain, senorita," he returned, formally. "You will not find me shirking any of the responsibility I have undertaken."

"Very well. Leave your address upon that table, I shall send for you when I need you."

It seemed to her that it would have been impossible for her to stand there watching him until he had written it out and left the room. The very sight of him nauseated her—oppressed her with terrible loathing. She turned from him and left the room with that stately dignity which was so recently acquired a characteristic, and slowly mounted the stairs to her room, feeling worn and weary, as if some new and hideous affliction weighed upon her, instead of the accomplishment of a cherished revenge.

She had scarcely deserted the library when, through the portiÈre through which she had listened the evening before to the conversation between Meriaz and Pierrepont, Jessica glided with the grace of a shining serpent. She went straight up to Meriaz and smiled into his face with as singular a fascination as she had been wont to use upon her victims in society.

"Well," she exclaimed, half caressingly, "you have accomplished it?"

He laughed slightly—not a pleasant sound; but she did not shrink from it in the least.

"You put a good job in my way, little one," he said, familiarly. "Twenty thousand ain't picked up every day in the week. It was a lucky stroke for me the day I started for New York, but that walk down by the old Donato Mine was a still luckier one. It ain't safe for us to talk too much here, for I have found that walls have ears just as often as little pitchers, and this room is a particularly good place for eavesdroppers. But there is one thing I want you to do for me, little one."

"What is it?"

"I want about five minutes' conversation with your mother."

"What about?"

He smiled.

"That is my secret—and hers," he answered.

"She has no secrets from me."

"Perhaps not, but I don't mix up my affairs in that promiscuous way. She may tell you, afterward, if she likes. Will you arrange it so that I can see her?"

For just a moment Jessica hesitated, and then said, quietly:

"Come with me; I'll take you to her boudoir."

And, knowing how her mother detested the man, knowing how she feared him, Jessica led him upstairs, and without seeking permission, ushered him into her mother's presence.

She did not wait to overhear that conversation, but went at once to Carlita's room.

Carlita did not hear her knock, did not hear the door open; but Jessica found her seated beside the window, her head resting upon the back of her chair, her eyes closed, her hands upon her lap, every muscle seemed to be relaxed save those of the hands, but these were so tightly compressed as to give ample indication of the terrible mental strain which had well-nigh exhausted her.

There was time for Jessica to observe her closely before Carlita became aware of her presence, and a smile of absolute hatred was changed quickly to one of tenderest solicitude as the dark eyes suddenly opened and rested upon her face.

She went forward quickly and knelt by Carlita's side, clasping her waist with both arms.

"I thought you were sleeping," she said, gently, telling her lie as sweetly as if it were unvarnished truth.

"Sleeping!" returned Carlita with a little shiver, her voice heavy and dry and expressionless. "Oh, no! I don't feel as if I should ever sleep again."

"Then it is—true?"

"God! So cruelly true that it seems impossible! Why is it that fact is so much more ghastly in its horror than fiction?"

"He can prove it?" asked Jessica, allowing the question to go unanswered for want of knowledge to meet it.

"Yes," cried Carlita, with the first semblance of passion in her tone. "Prove it the most dastardly crime in all the annals of criminal records. Oh, my God! that man could be so false, so craven a coward!"

"But the act is not what you have to think of now," exclaimed Jessica, feverishly, "it is its punishment. What are you going to do?"

"I have not thought. It seems to me that I am incapable of thought."

"But there is no time to be lost. If he should discover in any way that we suspect him, he would make his escape, and your opportunity would be forever lost. You must act at once."

"But how?" asked Carlita, hoarsely, her interest at piteously low ebb.

"Telegraph to Stolliker that you have the proof."

"Will you write it out for me? I feel so incapable, so helpless."

Jessica did not wait for any instructions, but went at once to the desk and wrote rapidly:

"Have every proof you seek of guilt of man we suspect in my possession. Obtain extradition papers at once, and return here without loss of time. Let me hear when this is received."

And then with only the assistance from Carlita of setting down the numbers in an apathetic way on a telegraph blank as she hunted them out, Jessica prepared it for transmission.

She did not leave Carlita alone after that, but tortured her with ways and means of completing her revenge, until it seemed to the poor, unhappy child that she should go mad under the sound of the well-modulated, musical voice. And yet she would not have been left alone for worlds. It seemed to her that in solitude madness lay, while longing for it with all her heart.

If you have ever suffered from some terrible shock, you will perfectly understand such inconsistency.

It was almost twelve o'clock that night when Stolliker's answer arrived, and even to send it then he had been forced to bribe the operator to open the office.

Carlita's fingers trembled so that she could not hold the volume to search out the meaning of the figures, but once more Jessica came to her aid.

"Send necessary affidavit at once. Even then much money will be required. Shall be forced to bring officer with me. Be sure suspect knows nothing of your movements and keep him near you as constantly as possible. If you lose sight of him, everything will fail."

And the reply was sent before either of the two girls slept:

"Call upon me for all money necessary, and spare no expense. Will send affidavit tomorrow morning. Your instructions shall be fully carried out."

And then Carlita found herself alone.

Where was the triumph over the murderer of her betrothed husband? Where was the exultation in bringing to justice so dastardly a criminal? Where was the wild joy in the fulfillment of an oath to the dead?

Was it expressed in the tight clasping of those interlaced fingers? Was it displayed in that passionate outburst of bitter, uncontrollable weeping?

God knows alone; for the heart of women is beyond human understanding, but after hours of groveling in the most exquisite anguish which she had ever known or ever dreamed of, she arose and crept into bed, turning out the light before she had undressed, because she was ashamed to face herself, ashamed to think of the bitterness of her agony, and yet understanding it no more than a child would have understood.

The curse of Pocahontas was following her with relentless severity.