Leslie Noble's parting threat to the Countess Vera that he would yet claim her for his own, was not by any means the mere momentary ebullition of rage at her cold and scornful rejection of his overtures. He fully meant to keep his word. He was dazzled by her rank, her prestige, and her wondrous beauty had taken his senses captive even before the time when she had declared herself his wife.

To win her he would have dared and risked much. It would be like mating with a queen and reigning as a sovereign, to share the heart, and home and wealth of this beautiful, titled lady.

Up to the hour when he had sought that memorable interview with Lady Vera at Clive House, Leslie Noble had deluded himself with a vain fancy that if he deserted Ivy, and personally solicited Vera to become his wife, she would not refuse.

Some spark of vanity whispered to him that if she had not had some personal interest in him she would not so readily have claimed him as her husband. He knew himself to be handsome, and he fancied that he had only to repudiate Ivy and acknowledge Vera's claim, to gain full possession of the beautiful girl.

But her cold, scornful, insulting repulse had fairly maddened him, and he had sworn an oath to himself, as to her, that he would eventually possess her.

But how to compass that desirable event puzzled him sorely.

By her own free confession she was his wife, but he was perfectly aware that it would be utterly futile to try to claim her before the law. Her friends were too strong and powerful for him to make open war upon her.

He dreaded that the least move of that nature on his part would provoke a suit for bigamy against himself.

No course remained to him, therefore, but "treason and stratagem." He longed to win her, and yet not altogether by brute force. Some fancy came to him of how sweet it would be to have the love of this beautiful girl, from whom he had recoiled in aversion when Mrs. Cleveland had woven that romance about her low-born, drunken father, but who seemed so desirable now, clothed in all the dazzling externals of wealth, rank, lordly birth, and peerless loveliness. So are we all swayed by the extraneous circumstances of worldly prosperity.

Time and again Leslie Noble cursed himself for his wavering and cowardice that fatal night when his weak words of regret had driven his friendless, forlorn little child-bride to desperate suicide. All he had lost by that fatal wavering rushed bitterly over him.

"If I had been true and kind to that poor child as her mother wished me to be, I should have reaped a rich reward for my fidelity when the Earl of Fairvale came to seek his child. Why did I not take her by the hand and calm her trembling fears that night by telling her enemies boldly that she was my wife, and I would not see her insulted? Ah, it was my weak fancy for that shrewish Ivy that ruined all! And how cleverly she and her mother played on my fickle feelings! Curses on them both. Vile wretches! They are not fit to live in the same world that holds my peerless Vera!"

So it came to pass that, fostering the passion he had conceived for Lady Vera, and enraged by her queenly scorn, Leslie Noble conceived nefarious designs for abducting the young countess and bearing her to a place of concealment, where alone and undisturbed, he might plead his cause and peradventure win her heart.

It was the foolish reasoning of a madman, and in truth Leslie Noble was half mad with the violence of his passions, while the bitterness of his disappointment only urged him on to fresh endeavors.

Lady Vera little guessed how her footsteps were dogged and her movements watched by this man whom she so loftily despised. She did not know that when she left London and retired to her country home for greater security from her enemies, that this lover, more ruthless than any foe, had followed her to her own neighborhood, and was playing the spy on her movements, eager to carry out his base design.

She little knew that it was Leslie Noble who had stolen the book from her lap when she fell asleep by the lake that sunny day.

In the advertisement that followed, the crafty wretch saw the accomplishment of his wicked purpose.

It was he who, in the guise of an old woman, had given little Hal that crafty letter for Lady Vera.

It was he who waited now in the cheap and common garb of an old and poverty-stricken crone, to meet the fair young girl who came so innocent and unsuspecting, with almost a smile of triumph on her lips as she thought of meeting Sir Harry Clive with her recovered treasure; thus Leslie Noble waited, like a great, poisonous, black spider weaving his web for his innocent prey.

She comes swiftly along the narrow footpath with a light, graceful step, wrapped in the long, dark circular cloak, and holding up with both hands the sweeping train of the delicate dinner-dress from contact with the dust and the dew.

The deepening twilight enfolds her in its dim, shadowy light, and lends a mysterious aspect to the bent figure of the old hag, who grasps with both hands the head of a thick, knotted stick, while she waits, with eyes bowed sullenly to the ground, for the lady's coming.

"Are you the person who sent for me?" Lady Vera asks, gently, as she comes to a pause opposite this forbidding-looking figure.

The hooded head of the old hag is slowly lifted in the darkness of the falling twilight. The eyes that regard her so intently are shielded by great goggle-glasses.

"Yes, if you are Lady Fairvale," is the answer, in a muffled voice, with a strange croak in it.

"I am Lady Fairvale, and I have brought the reward I offered," the countess answers, anxiously. "Have you the memorandum-book?"

"Yes, I have it," gruffly.

"Then pray let me have it at once," Lady Vera exclaims, with some impatience. "It grows late, and I must hurry back to my waiting guests."

"In a moment, lady," the strange voice says, wheedlingly. "You see, I was afraid to trust you wholly. I suspected treachery, so I hid the book in the hedge a little way back here. Walk on with me a pace, and you shall have it, my lady."

"Go on, I will follow you," answers the girl.

She gathers the trailing skirts of her dress in her hands again, and walks on after the bent form hobbling painfully with the aid of the stick. It is growing very dark.

A cloud has come over the sky. The deep stillness and loneliness of the spot are broken suddenly by the impatient neigh of a horse.

With a start, Lady Vera turns her head. In that moment, two strong arms clasp her as in a vise, her hood is drawn over her face to smother her agonized shrieks, and the old woman, grown suddenly tall and erect, and strong, bears her forcibly to a carriage that has been waiting, hidden behind a hedge.

Her abductor springs in beside her, closes the door, and they are whirled away through the falling night, while a dexterous sprinkle of chloroform reduces the miserable girl to unconsciousness.

Meanwhile, Sir Harry and Lady Clive, repairing to the drawing-room near the dinner-hour, wonder and speculate upon the absence of their hostess.

She is not wont to keep them waiting, but to-day the great dinner-bell clangs twice over, and no swish of silk in the hall, no hastening footsteps announce her coming.

"What can keep Lady Vera?" the lady wonders, aloud. "Usually she is here full half an hour before the time. She is never long at her dressing. I wonder——"

There is a sudden, quick step outside the door, and Sir Harry interrupts her with:

"Here she is now."

The door is opened, but it is only Elsie, the maid, who enters the room. Elsie, with her pretty face all pale with fear, her cheeks wet with tears, in her hand Lady Vera's letter.

"Sir Harry," she utters, in a broken voice, "my lady went out into the grounds an hour ago. She gave me this letter for you in case she did not return within the hour. The time is past, and I have hastened to obey her."

A chill premonition of danger thrills his heart as he breaks the seal. She has written only a few brief lines, but they are startling in their nature.

"I have gone to meet the writer of the inclosed note. If I do not return in an hour you must suspect danger and have search made for me."

That is all. When he has read the contents of the yellow envelope a groan bursts from his lips as he hands it to his wife.

"It is a trap, and she has walked innocently into it, poor girl. Doubtless her foes have murdered her ere this," he exclaims, in deep agitation.

"God forbid," Lady Clive exclaims, bursting into frightened tears.

There is no thought of dinner now. Sir Harry musters the whole force of men-servants, and himself at their head, they sally forth to the rescue of their betrayed mistress.

A beating summer rain has commenced to fall, and the night is pitchy dark, save for the occasional flashes of lightning that flare with blue and lurid fire against the black and stormy sky. They divide into separate forces and search frantically till the day-dawn. But all trace of Countess Vera is swallowed up in the blackness of the stormy, mysterious night.

In the early dawn, a telegram flashes over the wires to Colonel Lockhart in London:

"Come quickly. Vera has been abducted."