Madeline Payne had lingered over her toilet, pondering the incomprehensible manner of Claire Keith. She now stood before her mirror, brush in hand, thinking.

"Not ready yet?"

If Madeline could believe her eyes, Claire was actually smiling!

"I thought you would be waiting for me," continued Claire, composedly, pulling a big chair forward, and sitting down where she could look full in Madeline's face. "But it is just as well; there is something that I want to say, before we go down. Why don't you go on with your hair?"

Madeline's hand, brush and all, had dropped to her side, and she was silently staring at her friend. Without a word she resumed her employment, looking more at Claire than at her own reflected image.

"You guessed rightly, when you accused me of having seen Mr. Percy to-day," pursued Claire.

"Accused, Claire?"

"Well, informed, then. I did see him. He wrote me a letter; it was posted at Bellair; you see," smiling bitterly; "that I have no reason for doubting anything you have told me."

A new light broke over Madeline's face. "Do you doubt?" she asked, quickly.

"Not one word!"

"Oh!" drawing a breath of relief. "You were so composed I thought—"

"That I was hoping to disprove your statements? Not at all. And why should I not be composed? Do you think my heart could break for such a man?"

"Hearts don't break so easily," said Madeline, gloomily, "but they ache sometimes."

"Do they?" placing her hand over her heart and smiling faintly. "Well, mine don't ache either, yet; but it burns."

Madeline stayed her brush again. "No," she murmured, "it don't ache yet."

Claire made a gesture of impatience. "Oh, I know what you mean, Madeline! By and by my heart will ache, of course—I know that, having discovered, quite recently, that I am human. One can't feel outraged and angry always, and sometimes, I suppose, my day-dreams will come back and haunt me. Well, that is a part of the price we have to pay for intruding into dreamland when we are not asleep. But this is not what I began to say. Edward Percy met me to-day, and this is what he told me: He said he was going away, upon some geological expedition, and would most likely be gone a year. He wanted me to promise to hold myself free until he could return and claim me. He would exact no other promise now, only pledging himself. At the end of a year, all obstacles to our open engagement would be removed. I, of course, supposed, then, that the 'obstacles' referred to, were business and financial ones. Don't think, Madeline, that we have been in the habit of meeting clandestinely. He visited me openly in Baltimore, but not often enough to excite remark; and we frequently met at other places, as he went in the best society there."

Claire paused, but Madeline went on with her toilet in grave silence.

"Madeline, darling, I can't thank you enough for opening my eyes before it was too late, while it was no worse—and I can't explain my feelings. I despise him, and I despise myself for being thus duped. It is my pride that is suffering now but, of course, I know that, despise the man as I may, my heart will be heavier and my life darker, because of what I believed him to be. Now let us go to Olive."

Madeline Payne threw her arms impulsively about her friend and murmured, brokenly:—"Claire, Claire! you are braver than I, and far, far more worthy. You have a right to be happy, and you shall be."

And in that moment the girl renounced a resolve she had taken, and a hope she had cherished.

As they descended the stairs together Claire fancied that she looked paler, and a thought sadder than before.

They found Olive and dinner waiting. As they took their places about the luxury-laden board, three lovelier women or three sadder hearts could not have been found in a day's journey.

Of the three, Claire Keith was the calmest, the most self-possessed. All that was to be related by Madeline, all that Olive was waiting in anxious expectation to hear, she knew already. The best and the worst had been revealed to her; her own course was clear before her. So she ate her dinner with composure, and bore a large share in the table talk that, but for her, would have been rather vague and spasmodic.

Dinner was an ordeal for Olive, at least, on that day, for her mind was filled with thoughts of Philip, and wonderment as to how the picture of the man who had been his ruin came into the possession of Madeline, who was making herself more and more of a mystery.

Madeline, too, was restless. She wished the revelation were made and done with. She wondered if she could control the future so far as Olive was concerned, for she had made her plans, and did not propose to let the work be taken out of her hands.

When Madeline had related to Olive the events that had been transpiring at Oakley, she had narrated faithfully the scenes between Cora and Percy, but she had withheld the name of the latter, a fact which was not even noticed by Olive, who had not been especially interested in this last actor upon the scene.

Now, when dinner was over, and they had grouped themselves about the grate, its ruddy glow illuminating the twilight that was fast giving place to evening shadows, Madeline retold the story of Percy's first interview with Cora on his arrival, and his second, in the summer-house, the overhearing of which had caused that long absence from Miss Arthur's dressing-room, which necessitated her ingenious and highly improbable explanation to the aggrieved spinster, with which the reader is already acquainted.

During this recital the face of Olive Girard was a study. It changed from curiosity to wonder; from wonder to a dawning hopefulness of finding in all this a possible clue, that might help her husband to his freedom. Then despair took the place of hope, as the clue seemed to elude her grasp. At the end, astonishment and incredulity fairly took away her breath. She sank back in her chair without uttering a word.

Madeline waited for comments, but Claire was the first to speak. During the recital she had been able to think, and to some purpose. As the disjointed fragments were joined together by Madeline, Claire was drawing shrewd and close inferences. Now she lifted her head and asked:

"Madeline, have you formed any sort of a theory, as to how all this might affect Olive and Philip?"

Madeline looked up in surprise at the question, and answered it by asking another: "Have you?"

"Yes, but I think Olive would rather hear yours; and mine is, as yet, but half formed."

Olive had regained a measure of her composure, and now she sat erect, and said, eagerly:

"Madeline, I have been too much surprised and shocked to think clearly. Think for me, child, and for mercy's sake, tell me at once all that you suspect."

"I suspect much," replied the girl, gravely; "but what we want is proof. First we want to find out who is the party who accompanied Madame Cora, or Alice, as Percy called her, to Europe, for to Europe she went. Did she know Lucian Davlin ten years ago? Did they go together to Europe?"

"You want to know, first of all," said Claire, interrupting her, "when the intimacy of those two did begin. The woman may not have known him ten years ago. It would be easier to find out if they have been allies during the past five years."

Madeline turned a look of surprised admiration upon the speaker as she replied:

"You are right, Claire, and keener than I. Yet, my theory is, that they were friends before the woman fled from her cottage in the suburbs. I think the stealing of the marriage certificate has a strong savor of a man's thoughtful cunning. The woman could not have been so deep a schemer in those days. Now, Olive, let us suppose that these two were plotting in unison. Edward Percy's first wife dies, and no one the wiser about the marriage. Then he inherits his uncle's wealth. If Edward Percy were to die then, the woman, Cora, could come forward as his widow, display the proofs of their marriage, and inherit his fortune. He seems to have no living relatives, but, even should other heirs appear, she would claim her widow's portion."

"Good heavens!" gasped Olive.

"Wait," pursued Madeline; "now, don't you see, supposing all the rest true, that if Lucian Davlin attempted the life of this man, with the view of getting his money, and if he failed in some manner unknown,—don't you see that, holding over Percy's head the fear of the law, and the proofs of his having committed bigamy, he might thus silence him? Then, that the two disliking Philip Girard, and finding the opportunity to throw suspicion upon him by circumstantial evidence, would naturally do so."

Olive Girard was fearfully agitated, but, after a few moments, had in a measure recovered her self-possession. Then the three seemed seized with a desire to talk all at once. And talk they did,—fast, earnestly, excitedly at times.

At last, out of many words, they evolved a plan of action, and having arrived at a definite conclusion, they settled down into partial calm once more; a calm that was broken by a most agreeable ripple.

Doctor Clarence Vaughan was announced, and ushered into their presence, all in the same moment.

Doctor Vaughan was glad to see Madeline; that was evident. But while he expressed his pleasure in frank, brotherly fashion, his eyes wandered from her face to that of Claire Keith.

It was only a look, but Madeline Payne would have exchanged all the smiles, hand clasps, and brotherly words she could ever hope to receive from him, for one such glance from his eyes. But the tender wistfulness was all for Claire—blind Claire, who saw nothing of it.

Madeline withdrew her hand from his clasp, uttering, as she did so, a flippant commonplace in response to his hearty greeting, but Claire had caught the look in his eyes, and the false gayety in Madeline's voice, and it caused her to wonder.

Heretofore she had lived in a dream of her own, and had been careless of the varying expressions of those about her. Her dream had been dispelled, and she seemed now to have a keener eye for the emotion of others. Troubles of our own, sometimes, open our eyes to the fact that our friends are not all supremely happy. Then we naturally fall to speculating as to the cause. This was the case with Claire. She speculated a little as to why the eyes of Dr. Vaughan rested upon her, with that half-sad expression in them. Then she wondered why the spirit of perversity had possessed Madeline, and induced her to extend to Doctor Vaughan so shabby a welcome. Then, without realizing it, she fell to observing the manner of these two more closely.

"Well, Miss Payne, what report do you bring from the enemy's country?" he asked, after a few commonplaces between himself and the mistress of the house.

"I have not been in the enemy's country, Doctor Vaughan; the enemies are infesting mine."

"As you please, little warrior," smiled he. "Then may I ask, how goes the battle?"

"Oh, yes! you may ask," crossing over and seating herself beside Olive, "but your curiosity must wait. It's a ridiculous, tiresome story, and wouldn't amuse you much, or interest you, either. I am going to let Mrs. Girard inflict it upon you, when she thinks you need a penance."

"I think you need a penance now, Miss Payne, for accusing me of too much curiosity, and too little interest."

"Oh, I didn't mean that, exactly," shrugging her shoulders carelessly. "I suppose, of course, a physician is interested to a certain extent in all his subjects, living or dead; but I can't let you dissect my mind to-night. Besides," laughing maliciously, "I know you would recommend leeches and blisters, and maybe a straight jacket, and I can't be stopped in my charming career just yet."

Clarence Vaughan seemed not in the least offended by the girl's cool insolence. He smiled indulgently, and when Olive ventured a gentle remonstrance, he murmured to Claire, with a half laugh: "Miss Madeline is incomprehensible to me; do you understand her, Miss Keith?"

And Claire, looking across at her friend, replied, oddly: "I love her, Doctor Vaughan, and I begin to understand her, I think."

"Do you?" smiling down upon her. "Then some day will you not interpret her to me?"

Claire's answer was again given oddly, as, lifting her eyes to his face, she said, quite gravely: "If it is necessary to do so, perhaps I will."

Then conversation became general; rather Dr. Vaughan talked, and they all listened.

Claire found herself thinking that Doctor Vaughan was a noble-looking man; not alluringly handsome, as was Edward Percy; not possessing the magnetic fascination that Madeline had described as belonging to Lucian Davlin. But he had a fine face, nay, a grand face, full of strength and sweetness; not devoid of beauty, but having in it something infinitely better, truer, and more godlike than mere physical beauty can impart to any face.

Then she thought of Madeline, of her loneliness, her sorrow, and her need of just such a strong, gentle nature to lean upon, to look up to, and to obey. "She would obey him," quoth Claire to herself.

Next she fell to watching Madeline, through half-closed eyelashes. She saw how the girl listened to his every word; how, when his eyes were not upon her, she seemed to devour him with a hungry, longing, sorrowful gaze.

"As if she were taking leave of him forever," thought Claire.

And that is what Madeline was doing. When she came to the city, it was with the determination to win the love of this man, if it could be won; to let nothing stand between herself and the fulfillment of that purpose. But all this had been changed, and seeing how bravely Claire bore the shock of her lover's baseness, how proudly, how nobly, she commanded herself, Madeline had abandoned her purpose.

"I am not worthy of him, and she is," she told herself.

When she declared that Claire should be happy, she bade farewell to her own hope of future happiness. She would help him to win the girl he loved, and then she would be content to die; aye, more than content.

To-night, therefore, she was saying in her heart a farewell to this man, who was so dear to her. She had almost hoped that she should not meet him again for the present, and yet she was so glad to have seen him once more. She was glad of his presence, yet fearful lest her good resolution might be shaken. She would not let him be too kind to her, rather let him think her ungrateful, anything—what could it matter now?

"Shall you not come back to the city soon, Miss Payne? Surely your old home can not be the most charming place, in your eyes," questioned Clarence, after a time.

"I don't intend returning to the city—at least, not for some time, Doctor Vaughan."

Clarence looked perplexed.

To break the silence that ensued, Claire crossed to the piano and began playing soft, dreamy fragments of melody.

Presently Olive took up the conversation, and when Madeline again turned her face toward him, he was listening to Olive and looking at Claire. It was the same look, yearning, tender.

Claire, all unconscious of his gaze, was looking at Madeline, as she played softly on.

As Olive and Clarence talked, Claire saw the face of the girl grow dark; she saw her eyes full of a hungry, despairing light, and gradually there crept upon her the remembrance that she had seen that same look, only not so woful, in the eyes of Clarence Vaughan; that same look fixed upon herself. Involuntarily her fingers slipped from the keys, and she turned from the instrument to encounter the same gaze fastened upon her now; ardent, tender, longing eyes they were, and her own fell before them.

Claire Keith was troubled. She wanted to be alone, to think. She murmured an excuse; her head ached; she would retire.

Clarence had noted an unusual brightness in her eye, and a feverish flush upon her cheek. Now, however, she was quite pale, and as she extended her hand to him with a strange, new sensation of diffidence and consciousness, he clasped it for a moment in his own, and said, earnestly: "You do not look at all well, Miss Keith; you are sure it is only a headache?"

"Quite sure," smiling faintly.

"Then good-night. I shall enquire after your head to-morrow."

"Thank you," she murmured.

Then nodding to her sister and Madeline, she glided from the room.

It had all come upon her at once. Edward Percy was an impostor; Edward Percy, as she had believed in him, had never existed. The love that she had believed hers was hers no longer, or, if it were, she no longer desired it. Almost simultaneously with this knowledge, came the unspoken assurance that she was the possessor of a worthier love, a manlier heart.

She could not feel glad to know this, yet she was not sorry. Somehow it soothed her to know that she was not a forsaken, loveless maiden. It was something to possess the love of so good a man, even if she could make it no return.

But Madeline. Poor Madeline; she loved this man; she needed his love, she must have it.

Claire pulled back the curtains from her window, and gazed out into the starlit night. "She needs this love," the girl murmured. "Clarence Vaughan shall learn to love her, if I can bring it about. Yes, even if I loved him, I would give him up to her."