In an obscure but respectable street in London, Mrs. Cleveland and Ivy had hidden themselves away in cheap and shabby lodgings, the better to husband the small hoard of money that remained to them of all their departed wealth and grandeur.

"I will never consent to sell my jewels and dresses, never!" the repudiated wife declared, firmly, the ruling passion still strong even in her defeat and disgrace. "For when Leslie finds that Vera will not live with him, and when Mr. Gilmore's lawyers prove her to be the adventuress and impostor that she is, he will return to me, and I shall be his wife again. We will return to America, where no one knows anything of our trouble, and then I shall need my fine dresses and jewels again."

"But what if we come to want in the meantime?" Mrs. Cleveland inquires grimly.

"You may sell your rubies. They are worth a thousand pounds, at least, and the proceeds will keep us comfortable for some time," Ivy answers, with cool insolence.

So, with the dread of selling her beloved rubies before her eyes, Mrs. Cleveland proceeds to practice economy with a vengeance, living in the cheapest style with a view to lengthening to its utmost capacity the check that Leslie Noble had contemptuously thrown them at their last interview.

But the wily widow has her own schemes and plans for the future, though she imparts none of them to Ivy, whose selfishness and insolence have begun to disgust even the wicked and crafty woman who bore her. Ivy always contrived to make herself a despised burden to anyone who had aught to do with her. Even her mother was sensible of that patent fact.

In these days of their disgrace and humiliation, the deserted wife shut herself into her shabby chamber, incessantly bewailing her hard fate, and upbraiding her mother for her long-ago sin which had been the means of bringing down this vengeance on her daughter's head. Not that Ivy regretted the wrong that had broken the hearts of Lawrence and Edith Campbell, but she was exceedingly wroth that the consequences had recoiled upon her own devoted head.

While she nurses her woes in the seclusion of her small, hot chamber, Mrs. Cleveland is maturing her plans for the future in the shabby-genteel parlor where she is interviewing a visitor—no less a person than Raleigh Gilmore.

Mr. Gilmore, after a calm, dispassionate view, does not appear like a man who would honor the title and estates from which he is desirous of ousting the present fair incumbent, Lady Fairvale. He is tall and thin, and stoop-shouldered, with shaggling, gray hair, gray, ferret eyes, and a coarse face on which nature has stamped "villain" too unmistakably for cavil. So much the better for her purpose, the woman thinks to herself as she reads the cunning features like an open book.

The first purport of their interview having been discussed, the visitor proceeds to the second.

"When I received your letter advising me of your ability and willingness to furnish evidence to oust that adventuress from Fairvale and leave me in possession, you hinted at a reward which you should exact in return for your valuable services," he observes, regarding her closely under his shaggy, overhanging, gray eyebrows.

"Yes," she remarks, with a cool, self-possessed bow.

"I should be glad to know the amount of the sum that will compensate your aid," Mr. Gilmore pursues, as eagerly as if he already held the vast wealth of Fairvale within his close, penurious grasp.

A slight, mocking smile glances over the wily widow's handsome, well-preserved face.

"You are a bachelor, I have heard," she answers, in a significant tone.

"Yes; I have never liked women well enough to tie myself to one," Mr. Gilmore retorts, with grim frankness.

The widow tosses her head.

"I am sorry for that," she says, audaciously; "I had hoped you would like my looks, for I must tell you frankly, that the reward I claim is to share your good fortune in toto as your wife."

He stares at her, growing pale in his angry amazement.

"There will be a kind of poetic compensation in such a marriage," Mrs. Cleveland pursues, coolly enjoying his rage. "I loved Lawrence Campbell, but my half-sister stole his heart from me. By rights I should have been his wife, and in course of time, Countess of Fairvale. No reward will satisfy me except to step into Vera Campbell's place and reign absolute sovereign where she has queened it so long. You see I do not offer to take away anything from you, only to share it with you."

"But, Mrs. Cleveland—madam—I have already explained to you that I am prejudiced against women. I do not wish to marry," protests the old bachelor, finding voice after his first surprise.

"So you reject me?" she inquires, with an air of chagrin.

"Yes, decidedly yes," he returns, nervously. "Be pleased to name some other reward."

"I have already explained to you that nothing will satisfy me except to be Countess of Fairvale. I wish to ride rough shod over Vera Campbell's heart, and in no other way could I be revenged so well as in taking her own place. Since you deny me this small grace I decline to help you to the earldom, and all that we have said about it goes for nothing," returns the widow, with the utmost frankness.

Anger almost gets the better of Mr. Gilmore for a moment, but crushing back the words upon his lips, he looks steadily at the speaker in blank silence.

"You do not find me very bad-looking, do you?" she inquires, with an air of unruffled good nature.

"On the contrary, I think you decidedly handsome and well-preserved. I never expected to be courted by so fine-looking a woman. Do you consider me handsome, madam?"

"Not at all. You are abominably ugly," she replies, after a calm scrutiny of his face. "If I marry you, it will not be for any personal merit you possess, only as a stepping-stone to power."

"You are very candid, but since you have the balance of power in your hands, you can afford to speak freely. Madam, I offer you my heart, hand and fortune. Will you accept them?" he exclaims, in grim displeasure.

"Are you in earnest?" she inquires.

"Never more so. You have left me no alternative," he answers, bitterly. "But I warn you, I shall not make a very loving husband."

"Nor I a loving wife. But I accept you as I said just now, as a stepping-stone to power," she replies, with provoking coolness.

He rises to depart.

"It is settled, then," he observes, with forced complaisance. "You will help me to the earldom, and I will pay you by making you my bride. When shall the wedding be?"

"On the day when you take possession of Fairvale's title and estates," she answers, promptly. "Au revoir, my charming bridegroom."