Ida hurried back to the depot, purchased her ticket, and boarded the train for home.

She had scarcely stepped from the ticket-agent's window, ere the policeman who had directed her to the pawn-shop accosted the agent.

"Where did that veiled woman buy her ticket for? What is her destination?" he whispered.

He told him, and the officer jotted down the name of the station in his note-book.

With the money securely in her possession, Ida reached home. Dusk had crept up; the stars were out in the sky.

She succeeded in gaining her own room unobserved. She was tired and hungry; indeed, she had not thought of food since she had left the house early in the day.

She threw off the long black cloak, the bonnet, thick veil, and black dress she had worn on her visit to Washington. After bathing her face in fragrant water and donning a silken house-robe, Ida rang the bell for her maid.

"Nora," she said, "you may bring me a cup of tea and a biscuit."

"I am very glad that you are awake at last," said Nora. "I wanted very much to tell you something; but as you bid me not to disturb you on any account, I dared not come and knock on the door, ma'am."

"You are quite right," said Ida, wearily, "not to disturb me. I needed rest—rest," said Ida, brokenly.

"I wanted to tell you about the man who was skulking in the grounds. I was hurrying along here a few moments ago, when some one sprung out from behind the rose-bushes and grasped me by the arm.

"I certainly would have cried out with terror, but he put his hand over my mouth.

"'Keep still, and I won't hurt you,' he said, with an oath.

"Trembling with terror, I stood still. I saw that he was a gentleman; but I noticed also that he was very much under the influence of wine.

"'Tell me, are you one of the maids from the house?' he asked.

"'Yes,' I answered.

"'Do you know me?' he questioned.

"'No,' I replied. 'I am a stranger in the village. I have only been in my lady's employ a little more than a fortnight.'

"'I want you to give your mistress this,' he said, producing an envelope from his pocket."

She did not add that the stranger had given her a bill to insure the safe delivery of his message, and to keep her from saying anything about it.

As the girl spoke, she produced an envelope.

Even before the hapless Ida saw it, she knew full well from whom it came.

Poor, hapless Ida! She sunk down into the nearest seat, white as she would ever be in death. She did not dare open it until after the girl had gone for the tea.

She drank it eagerly.

"Please bring me another cup, Nora," she said, "stronger than the first."

"I am afraid that you have a fever, my lady," said the girl, anxiously.

"I am only thirsty. You may as well take the biscuit back; I am afraid it would choke me," said Ida.

"But you must be hungry," persisted the maid. "I am sure you have eaten nothing since breakfast time."

When the girl had gone, Ida tore open the envelope, and read:

"My clever little wife, I am here a day earlier than I anticipated. Meet me at once in the same place. Of course you have the money by this time. Bring it with you."

She crushed the note in her hand. No one heard the gasping, the bitter sob, the despairing cry she uttered. The iron had entered her soul. There was nothing but to obey his commands.

The girl had said that he was under the influence of wine.

Ida had seen him in that condition once before, and that was on his bridal-eve, and the memory of it had never left her.

He was terrible enough when sober, but under the influence of liquor he might be a fiend.

The girl brought a second cup of tea, which Ida drank eagerly.

"Now, leave me, Nora," she said, "and do not come again until I ring for you."

With trembling hands, Ida placed the money in her bosom, drew the black cloak over her shoulders, and hurried into the grounds.

Trembling with a vague apprehension, she sped by a path that was seldom used down to the brook-side.

"True to your tryst!" said a well-known voice. "Fairest, cleverest of women, how can I thank you enough for your promptness?"

She stood still, cold as marble, her face ghastly white in the flickering light of the stars.

"Have you no word for me?" he cried, with a harsh, derisive laugh. "Have you no smile, no kiss, no kind word? Have you nothing to say to me? You have no love, no light of welcome in your eyes, and yet you loved me so dearly once, my sweet Ida? Do you remember? And now——"

"You mocking demon!" she panted, "how dare you utter such words to me? I wonder you are not afraid that Heaven will strike you dead where you stand!"

"Heaven strike me dead?" he repeated. "What a horrible idea! Afraid? Oh, no, my dear. You are the first charming creature I ever saw who flew into such a rage because her husband was pleased to be sentimental to her."

He heard her draw her breath hard. She stood before him white and trembling, her eyes filled with burning fire.

"Say, Ida, couldn't you manage somehow to get the rest of the money—the five thousand?"

"No!" she answered, pitifully.

"That's only a bluff," he cried. "But it won't work with me!"

"You have sworn eternal silence now!" she cried; "you have given your oath, and you dare not break it. I can not raise any more money!"

"Perhaps you will pay that amount for a little secret which I possess, my lady," he said, mockingly.

"There is nothing more you could tell me that would interest me."

"We shall see," he replied, sneeringly.

He pulled from under his coat a dark-lantern, shot back the slide, and a flood of light illumined the scene. He drew a package from his pocket and unwrapped it. Ida watched him like one in a dream.

Suddenly an awful cry broke from her lips. One by one he took from the package the articles of clothing that had been worn by the little child he had secured from the village merchant's wife.

A cry awful to hear broke from her lips.

"I suppose, Ida, it isn't the proper thing to keep a person in suspense," he cried. "You deserted your little child—never once sought to discover whether it were dead or alive. By the merest chance, I ran across it lately. I took possession of it, and I have it now."

"I can not, I will not believe you," she answered, quickly.

"Perhaps this will convince you," he said, reading aloud a letter from the superintendent of the foundling asylum where the child had been placed.

It gave a full account of all that could be ascertained of the hapless mother of the child. As he read by the light of the dark-lantern, she knew that it was all true.

Her child alive!

The rapture of the thought was drowned in the horror that it was in this man's possession.

She fell on her face in the long grass, mad with misery and despair.