It was early the next morning when the Newport express steamed into the Grand Central Depot.

Royal Ainsley cast a furtive glance around him as he stepped upon the platform. He had quite expected a dozen or more detectives to spring forward, for, of course, the telegraph wires had been busy during the night.

They would no doubt be waiting to arrest him for abducting the heiress. But when he had blandly informed them that lovely Ida May was his wife, what could they do but fall back abashed and disconcerted.

To his great surprise, he seemed to create no sensation whatever. No one even noticed him as he joined the throng, with Ida May clinging tightly to his arm.

"I will give them some little trouble to find us," he thought to himself.

He knew of a quiet, aristocratic family hotel facing the park, and placing Ida in a carriage, he took a seat beside her, and directed the driver to proceed as quickly as possible to the place indicated.

Whirling through the streets of gay New York was quite a sensation to Ida, who had never been outside of her own country village, save for that fateful trip to Newport.

With Royal clasping her two little fluttering hands in one of his strong white ones, his left arm holding her close as the cab rattled up Broadway, her fear of the noise, the great rush of people hurrying hither and thither, and the great crush of vehicles that threatened to demolish them every moment, gradually subsided as they rode along.

They reached their destination, and a moment more were ushered into the little white-and-gold parlor.

"We will have the best breakfast that they can prepare," said Royal, "and then I shall take you to see the sights of the city."

He was obliged to take the hotel clerk into his confidence.

"It's an elopement," he whispered in the clerk's ear. "My bride is the heiress of the wealthy Mays, of Boston. There may be a deuce of a row when they trace us to this place, but it will end all right by the fatted calf being killed for us. But as for the breakfast, how long will it take to prepare it?"

"Not more than fifteen minutes," returned the clerk, with an obsequious bow. "We will send up to the parlor, and let you know when it is ready," he added.

He turned away with a royal air. Already he felt as if the May millions were in his pocket, that he was a man to be envied, that he was of great importance.

Royal Ainsley immediately joined Ida in the parlor. He found her ensconced in one of the large velvet easy-chairs, looking out of the window, with something very like fright in her great dark eyes.

"Oh, Royal, are you sure it is quite right?" she sobbed. "Did you want me to marry you so very much?"

"What a silly little girl you are!" he cried, impetuously. "Of course, I want you. I could not live without you. I know you must be very hungry, as well as tired from loss of sleep. Come over to this sofa and sit down, and we will talk over our plans."

"Royal," she whispered, clasping his hands closer, "you would not listen to me when I tried to tell you something in the conservatory; but you must listen to me now. I can not be quite happy, dear, until you know all. I—I have a confession to make."

He looked at her blankly.

"What odd words you use, my darling Ida!" he said. "A confession! I do not like to hear you use such an expression. I hope that there is no other lover in the background?"

"It is not a lover!" she cried, clinging to him. "I have never loved any one else but you!"

"Then it is all right, my angel!" he cried, brightly, gathering her closely to him, despite the fact that people were passing in the corridor outside, and had a full view of all that was taking place within the room. She struggled out of his arms, blushing like a peony, even though she was his bride.

"Sit opposite me, where I can see you, and it will not be so hard to tell you all," sobbed Ida, faintly.

He complied with her wishes.

"Cut the story as short as possible, dear," he said, "or you will be obliged to have it continued in our next, as breakfast will soon be ready."

"Oh, how shall I tell you the truth, Royal!" she said, distressedly. "Perhaps you won't smile so when you know all, and—and—you might even hate me."

"No matter what the little story is that you have to tell me, my darling, I will love you better than ever."

"Oh, Royal, are you sure of it?" she cried, with that frightened look which puzzled him so.

"Yes; I give you my word beforehand, that, no matter what you have to tell me, I will love you all the more!"

"I will tell you all, then, and throw myself on your mercy to forgive me for the past," she sobbed. "Hold my hands, Royal, closely in your own, while I tell you all of the pitiful past, from beginning to end; and then, Royal, you shall kiss my tears away, even—oh, Heaven, pity me!—though I have sinned beyond pardon!"