The next evening, or rather in the early hours of another day, four people were seated around the hospitable board of Kathleen Weir. One of these was the actress herself, her eyes bright with joy, her cheeks flushed with excitement, for the new play had been a great success, and the character of the heroine—passionate, loving, and impulsive—had suited her, and had won genuine applause from a crowded house. And her three guests consisted of Ralph Webster, another actress, and her present lover.

This other actress was of a very different type to Kathleen Weir. If she had not been beautiful she would have been nowhere on the stage. But she was beautiful; a sleepy, languid beauty, with a skin of snow, and shadowed dreamy eyes whose power she knew. And seated near her at the round supper table was young Lord Dereham, with his eyes fixed eagerly on her face.

Lord Dereham—the Earl of Dereham—had only very lately come into his great possessions. He was rather good-looking, with an honest, open expression, and the fair woman by his side had made up her mind, in her cold-hearted, calculating way, that she would become his wife. She was not in the least in love with him, but she wished to be a countess, and have nothing to do but amuse herself, and she was doing her best to obtain these luxuries.

Her name was Linda Falconer—the lovely Falconer the men called her—and her intended quarry at the present moment was Robert, Lord Dereham. Kathleen Weir had invited these two with a motive. She knew Linda Falconer would devote herself to Dereham, and that thus without being alone with Ralph Webster, that she would virtually be so.

They had laughed and jested about the new play; Kathleen, in her quick way and with her strong sense of humor, had brightly related little incidents that had occurred during the evening. She was not afraid of Linda Falconer’s white skin and dreamy eyes; she knew Linda had no wit, and that her beauty was all she had to depend on. Kathleen, on the other hand, had many resources. She was handsome, or seemed so; she was clever, and somehow she fancied that Ralph Webster was not a man who cared only for charms that were skin deep.

Suddenly she sprang to her feet in her lithe way.

“As all you good people seem to have finished supper,” she said, “suppose we go into the other room and I will sing you a song.”

Ralph Webster at once rose.

“I am too weary to move,” said Linda Falconer, with a languid glance at Lord Dereham.

“Stay where you are then, my dear,” replied her hostess; “and you will still have the advantage of listening to my warblings. Will you stay, too?” And she looked directly at Ralph Webster.

“I will go with you, if I may?” he answered.

She smiled her saucy smile.

“Come then,” she said, and the two passed together through the draped archway that divided the two rooms.

“How sentimental that young idiot looks,” she remarked as she opened the piano.

Webster smiled, and slightly shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s his calf-love, I suppose,” he said.

“From which he will speedily awake, if he does what Linda Falconer means him to do. But what matter! Yet, poor boy, I half pity him with his round, honest brown eyes fixed on her face.”

“She is a beautiful woman.”

“Yes, she is,” answered Kathleen, sharply, “with a heart of stone. There is no thought of human affection in her; neither love nor hate. She means to marry Dereham because he is Dereham, and I dare say she will succeed. She holds the whip hand, you see, because she gives him nothing.”

“And you call that holding the whip hand?”

“I mean the more a woman gives a man the less he gives her. There, sir, that is my experience, and I hope you will profit by it.”

“I will endeavor to do so.”

“Don’t sneer; that expression does not suit your face. You look best when you look earnest, and put on what I call your fighting look. But I am forgetting my song; stand here and turn over the leaves, and be sure you do not turn two together.”

Webster did as she bade him; he stood by her side and arranged her music, and the next minute or so a sweet flood of melody filled the room. Kathleen Weir had a ringing voice; a voice that somehow kept you spellbound until its last notes had died away. There was a thrill of passion in it too, as if the singer’s soul were echoing her words. Webster leaned on the piano, and drooped his eyelids listening, for these passion-swept strains stirred a strange emotion in his own breast. A flower-like face rose before his mental vision, and he sighed restlessly, and Kathleen Weir, glancing at him quickly, saw that she had touched some hidden chord in his heart.

“This man has loved someone once,” thought the keen-eyed woman, “or—does my voice charm him?”

The last thought pleased her best. Fuller and sweeter became her song; brighter and more radiant her eyes. But Webster was not looking at her. He gave a little jerk and pulled himself together when it was all over, and then for the first time since she had commenced singing he remembered he was standing by the side of Miss Kathleen Weir.

“Did you like that?” she asked, softly.

“I more than liked it,” he answered. “Miss Weir, you have the voice of a siren, and could charm any mariner down into the deep sea.”

“And how about a landsman?” she asked, archly.

“I would ask mercy for a landsman, but would advise him not to listen to your voice too often.”

“Then—you do not wish to be charmed?”

“As I am already, it is too late for me to express such a wish.”

“Then I shall sing you another song for making such a pretty speech.”

So she sang again, but the two in the next room remained where they were; the boy happy and entranced, the woman calculating and cold. Then Kathleen Weir tired of singing, and turned around on her music-stool and talked to Webster.

“Bring a chair,” she said to him, “and let us have a chat—or no, I will sit on the rug; I am like a cat, and love the warmth.”

She was like a cat, also, in the extraordinary suppleness of her limbs. She curled herself up now on the soft, white rug before the fire, and leaned back on a couch near, and fanned herself with a great feather fan.

“Now tell me something of your life,” she said, looking up at Webster, who had drawn a chair toward the fire also.

“What part of it?” he asked, looking down smilingly at the graceful woman before him.

“Oh, all of it! Were you a good boy, or a bad boy?”

“Distinctly a bad boy.”

“And a good man, or a bad man?”

“I’ve had no time to be either; I am simply a working man.”

“And—and—how shall I put it? You are not married, I presume?”

“No, I am not.”

“Nor engaged?”

“Nor engaged.”

“Happy man! You are free, then—absolutely free to do what you like?”

“I have at least no one to control me.”

“I have no one to control me, and yet I am not free,” said Kathleen Weir, half-bitterly. “I think I ought to look up that husband of mine, and see if he has not given me good cause to get rid of him altogether. What do you think, Mr. Webster?”

“I think it would be only fair to yourself.”

“I am beginning to think so, too. There is the three hundred a year to be considered, certainly, but I can command a good income now. Yes—I should rather be free.”

“And would you marry again?”

“How can I tell?” And a wave of color rose to her face. “If I did I would not marry as Linda Falconer wishes to do. I would not marry some titled boy for the sake of his name; I would marry—well, a man who has made his own.”

“You love ambition in men, then?”

“Yes, distinctly yes! I should like to look up to the man I married, not down.”

“What is your present husband, Mr. Temple, like?” asked Webster, somewhat abruptly. “Have you a portrait of him?”

“I believe I have, somewhere; as to looks he was all right.”

“May I see his portrait? I may know him by sight; I may help you to be free.”

Kathleen Weir rose from her lowly position, and crossing the room, opened an unlocked marquetry cabinet.

“There used to be one here somewhere,” she said, “but I have not seen it for ages. The last time I saw it I remember I turned its face to the wall. Ah, here it is—yes, this is John Temple.” And she shook a little dust off the photograph as she spoke.

Webster eagerly crossed the room and took the photograph from her hand. For a moment he did not recognize the face; it was certainly not a copy of the same photograph that Miss Webster had shown him. It was a picture of a young man—almost a boy—but as he closely scanned the features he became convinced that the John Temple he was now gazing at was the same John Temple who had married May Churchill.

He muttered something between his teeth which made Kathleen Weir look quickly up in his face.

“Do you know anything of him?” she asked.

“I may; I don’t quite know. Will you let me keep this photograph for one day? I wish to compare it with another.”

“Keep it forever, if you like. How strange if you should know anything of John Temple!”

“There are many strange things in life.”

“That is true; strange sympathies; strange hidden ties. We are drawn to some people, are we not, and repelled by others? We are wonderful creatures.”

“Yes,” answered Webster, slowly. He was scarcely listening to her; he was still gazing at the photograph he held in his hand, and wondering how he ought to act.

“May I ask you a question?” he said, a moment later, looking at Kathleen Weir.

“Of course you may.”

“Where were you married?”

“Do you mean in what church?”

“I mean in what place. Were you married in London?”

“Yes, certainly; I was married in an old city church called St. Jude’s. We were married there because it was out of the way, I suppose. John Temple chose the church, and I went and lived a fortnight in the parish before it took place.”

“And—forgive me—you cared for him then?”

“Yes; more fool I! But why do you ask all these questions? You make me curious.”

At this moment the curtain dividing the two rooms moved, and the beautiful actress, Linda Falconer, stepped between them, followed by her young lover.

“We have come to ask you for another song, Kate,” said Miss Falconer, languidly. “Dereham, here, is quite enchanted with your voice.”

“He will not be enchanted any more to-night, then,” answered Kathleen Weir; “this man and I,” and she nodded at Webster as she spoke, “have been talking of old times, and singing would seem frivolous after our conversation.”

“Ah! I did not know you knew Mr. Webster long ago.” And Miss Falconer rested for a moment her dreamy eyes on Webster’s dark face.

“I knew him in some spirit-land, I believe,” said Kathleen, with a light laugh. “I really feel as if I had known you somewhere else, do you know, Mr. Webster. Where can it have been.”

“In some spirit-land, perhaps, as you say,” answered Webster, with a smile. “But I must go now, and may I really take this photograph with me? I will return it the day after to-morrow.”

“Take it by all means, and come to supper the day after to-morrow. You may have something to tell me,” she added, significantly.

“I may; I can not tell. Good-night, Miss Weir.”

He shook hands with the others after this, and went away carrying the photograph with him. He was now almost convinced that the John Temple who had married May Churchill was the same John Temple who had married Kathleen Weir. If this were so May was not his wife, and Kathleen was! Webster’s dark face flushed, and his heart beat faster as he thought of it. But suddenly he remembered May’s words about faithfulness in love. Would she change even if she knew the man she had married to be completely unworthy? She might and she might not, and greatly disturbed in mind Ralph Webster returned to his chambers, and when he got there drew out the old photograph and examined again the somewhat faded likeness of the man he had never seen.

But the next morning brought him a letter, which more surely confirmed his suspicions. This was from Kathleen Weir herself, and the subject of it was her husband, John Temple.

“Dear Mr. Webster,” she wrote, “you had scarcely gone to-night, when I heard something that has surprised me greatly. It seems that Linda Falconer, in the pleasant way that we all talk of our friends’ sins or sorrows, had been telling Lord Dereham, when I was singing to you, all about my unfortunate marriage, of which he had never heard. When she mentioned John Temple’s name Dereham pricked up his ears. ‘Is that the man,’ he said, ‘who not long ago came into a fortune by his young cousin being killed at football?’ Now if this is my John Temple who has come into a fortune, it is a very plain fact that he should increase my allowance to something more respectable than a paltry three hundred a year. And I want you to find out this for me. I receive my income from him through a certain Mr. Harrison, a solicitor, and I inclose Mr. Harrison’s address. Will you go to him and make inquiries? I will think it most awfully good of you if you will, and I shall be eternally grateful to you if I were not so already! I am treating you as a friend, for I feel somehow that you are one, and the thought is very pleasant to me. Write after you have seen Harrison, and come the day after to-morrow to supper.

“Yours most sincerely,

”Kathleen Weir.”

There was no longer any doubt in Ralph Webster’s mind after he had read this letter as to the identity of the John Temple who had married two women. But there was a doubt; a strange vivid doubt as to how he should act under such painful circumstances. Before him rose the sweet, girlish face of May Churchill, with her glad eyes and quiet happiness; and then he thought of the change this cruel news would bring. The light would fade from her eyes, and the color from her smooth cheeks, and a crushing sense of shame and sorrow overshadow her young life. He tried to put his own feelings out of the question. The passionate beating of his heart he would not listen to.

“I must think what would be best for her,” he told himself; “but at all events I will go and see Harrison, and learn the whole story, as far as he knows of it.”

Mr. Harrison, the solicitor, was a personal acquaintance of his own. He had given him a couple of briefs, and they always exchanged friendly nods when they met. He only needed some slight excuse to pay Harrison a visit, and he soon found one on some point of law which he affected not quite to understand.

The solicitor received him almost with effusion. He was a little bustling man, and had a large business, and a rising barrister was always a person of consideration to him. He had not seen Webster since Kathleen Weir’s diamond case had been in court, and he quickly proceeded to compliment Webster on the way he had conducted the cross-examination of the maid.

“Ah, very good, very good indeed, Mr. Webster,” he said rubbing his hands together to express his satisfaction. “You tackled her splendidly, and it was a somewhat awkward affair for the handsome actress unless it had been cleared up. Very good-looking woman Miss Kathleen Weir, though of course, that isn’t her real name.”

“Is it not?” answered Webster, trying not to show his eager interest.

“No, no, no; there’s a bit of romance connected with Miss Weir’s life that, strange to say, I’ve been connected with for some years. She’s a married woman in fact; married to a certain Mr. John Temple, who is a client of ours; but they are separated by mutual consent, and Mr. Temple allows her a fair income to live on, but, of course, she does not need it; I am told she commands high prices on the stage, but still it is only right that Mr. John Temple should allow her something.”

“Mr. John Temple,” repeated Webster, quietly; “is that the man who became heir to a large fortune not long ago, by the death of his young cousin during a game of football?”

Mr. Harrison nodded his head.

“The very man, Mr. Webster! Yes, Mr. John Temple has been born under a lucky star I think. He is now heir to his uncle Mr. Temple of Woodlea Hall, a large land-owner, and a rich man to boot. But I have not told Miss Kathleen Weir of this windfall; you see she might be setting up claims that would annoy Mr. John Temple; asking for a larger allowance perhaps, or even to take his name.”

“To which I suppose she has a legal right?”

“Yes, unfortunately I fear so; nay it is so. In his hot young days you see he was led away to hang a millstone round his neck, just like many young men, and now, no doubt, he bitterly repents it. Ah, it’s a great mistake—a great mistake when a young fellow marries beneath him.”

“No doubt, but, Mr. Harrison, I am keeping you from your work and must no longer detain you. Thank you for answering my question, and now I must say good-morning.”

“Good-morning, Mr. Webster; very pleased to have seen you,” and the little man bustled about saying many pleasant things. But Webster soon cut him short and went away. He had learned all that Mr. Harrison could tell him.