We must now transport ourselves to Boston, in order to find out how Edith's flight was discovered, and what effect it produced in the Goddards' elegant home on Commonwealth avenue.

Emil Correlli had been seated in the handsome library, reading a society novel, when his sister went out to make her call, leaving him as guard over their prisoner above.

He had been much pleased with the report which she brought him from Edith, namely, that she believed she was yielding, and would make her appearance at dinner; at the same time he did not allow himself for a moment to become so absorbed in his book as to forget that he was on the watch for the slightest movement above stairs.

He and Mrs. Goddard had agreed that it would be wise not to make the girl a prisoner within her room, lest they antagonize her by so doing.

But while they appeared to leave her free to go out or come in, they intended to guard her none the less securely, and thus Monsieur Correlli kept watch and ward below.

He knew that Edith could not leave the house by the front door without his knowing it, and as he also knew that the back stairway door was locked on the outside, he had no fear that she would escape that way.

He, had not reckoned, however, upon the fact of an outsider entering by means of the area door and going upstairs, thus leaving that way available for Edith; and Giulia Fiorini had accomplished her purpose so cleverly and so noiselessly that no one save Edith dreamed of her presence in the house.

The two girls had carried on their conversation in such subdued tones that not a sound could be heard by any one below, and thus Emil Correlli was taken entirely by surprise when there came a gentle knock upon the half-open library door to interrupt his reading.

"Come in," he called out, thinking it might be one of the servants.

But when the door was pushed wider, and a woman entered, bearing a child in her arms, the astonished man sprang to his feet, an angry oath leaping to his lips, and every atom of color fading out of his face.

"Giulia?" he exclaimed, under his breath.

"Papa! papa!" cried the child, clapping his little hands, as he struggled out of his mother's arms, and ran toward him.

He took no notice of the child, but frowningly demanded, as he faced the girl:

"How on earth did you ever get into this house?"

"By a door, of course," laconically responded the intruder, but with crimson cheeks and blazing eyes, for the man's rude manner had aroused all her spirit.

"Well, and what do you want?" he cried, angrily; then, with a violent start, he added, nervously: "Wait; sit down, and I will be back in a moment."

It had occurred to him that if Giulia had been able to gain admittance to the house without his hearing her, Edith might find it just as easy to make her escape from it.

So, darting out of the room, he ran swiftly upstairs, to ascertain, as we have seen, if his captive was still safe.

We know the result, and how adroitly Edith allayed his suspicions; whereupon, wholly reassured regarding her, he returned to the library to settle, once for all, as he secretly resolved, with his discarded plaything.

"Well, Giulia," he began, as he re-entered her presence, "what has brought you here? what is your business with me?"

"I have come to ascertain if this is true, and what you have to say about it," she answered, as she brought forth the newspaper which she had shown Edith, and pointed to the article relating to the wedding at Wyoming.

The man tried to smile indifferently, but his eyes wavered beneath her blazing glance.

"Well, what of it?" he at last questioned, assuming a defiant air; "what if it is true?"

"Is it true?" she persisted; "have you really married that girl?"

"And what if I have?" he again questioned, evasively.

"I want the truth from your own lips—yes or no, Emil Correlli."

"Well, then—yes," he said, with a flash of anger.

"You own it—you dare own it to me, and—in the presence of your child?" almost shrieked the outraged woman.

"Stop, Giulia!" commanded her companion, sternly. "I will have no scene here to create a scandal among the servants. I intended to see you within a day or two; but, since you have sought me, we may as well at once come to an understanding. Did you think that you could hold me all my life? A man in my position must have a home in which to receive his friends, also a mistress in it to entertain them—"

"Have you forgotten all your vows and promises to me?" interposed Giulia, in tremulous tones; "that you swore everlasting fidelity to me?"

"A man vows a great many things that he finds he cannot fulfill," was the unfeeling response. "Surely, Giulia, you must realize that neither your birth nor education could entitle you to such a position as my wife must occupy."

"My birth was respectable, my education the best my country afforded," said the girl, with white lips. "Had you no intention of marrying me when you enticed me from my home to cross the ocean with you?"

"No."

The monosyllable seemed to fall like a heavy blow upon the girl's heart, for she shivered, and her face was distorted with agony.

"Oh, had you no heart? Why did you do such a fiendish thing?" she cried.

"Because you were pretty and agreeable, and I liked pleasant company. I have been accustomed to have whatever I wished for all my life."

"And you never loved me?"

"Oh, yes, for nearly three years I was quite fond of you—really, Giulia, I consider that I have been as faithful to you as you could expect."

"Oh, wretch! but you love this other girl more?"

"It would be worse than useless to attempt to deceive you on that point," said the man, his whole face softening at this mention of Edith.

"You lied to me, then, Emil Correlli!" cried the miserable woman, hoarsely; "you swore to me that the girl was nothing to you—that she was simply your sister's companion."

"And I simply told you the truth," he retorted. "She was nothing to me at that time; she was 'only my sister's companion.' However," he added, straightening himself haughtily, "there is no use in wrangling over the matter any further. I married Edith Allen the night before last, and henceforth she will be the mistress of my home. I confess it is a trifle hard on you, Giulia," he continued, speaking in a conciliatory tone, "but you must try to be sensible about it. I will settle a comfortable annuity upon you, and you can either go back to your parents or make a pleasant home for yourself somewhere in this country."

"And what of this boy?" questioned the discarded girl, laying her trembling hand upon the head of her child, who was looking from one to the other, a wondering expression on his young face.

Emil Correlli's lips twitched spasmodically for a moment. He would never have confessed it to a human being, but the little one was the dearest object the world held for him.

"I will provide handsomely for his future," he said, after considering for a minute. "If you will give him up to me he shall be reared as carefully as any gentleman's son, and, when he attains a proper age, I will establish him in some business or profession that will enable him to make his mark in the world."

"You would take him away from me to do this?" Giulia exclaimed, as she passionately caught her darling to her breast.

"That would be necessary, in order to carry out my purpose as I wish," the man coldly replied.

"Never! You are a monster in human form to suggest such a thing. Do you think I would ever give him up to you?"

"Just as you choose," her companion remarked, indifferently. "I have made you the proposition, and you can accept or reject it as you see fit, but if I take him, I cannot have his future hampered by any environments or associations that would be likely to mar his life."

"Coward!" the word was thrown at him in a way that stung him like a lash, "do you dare twit me for what you alone are to blame? Where is your honor—where your humanity? Have you forgotten how you used every art to persuade me to leave the shelter of my pleasant home—the protection of my honest father and mother, to come hither with you? how you promised, by all that was sacred, to make me your wife if I would do your bidding? What I am you have made me—what this child is, you are responsible for. Ah, Emil Correlli, you have much to answer for, and the day will yet come when you will bitterly repent these irreparable wrongs—"

"Come, come Giulia! you are getting beside yourself with your tragic airs," her companion here interposed, in a would-be soothing tone. "There is no use working yourself up into a passion and running on like this. What has been done is done, and cannot be changed, so you had best make the most of what is left you. As I said before, I will give you a handsome allowance, and, if you will keep me posted regarding your whereabouts, I will make you and the boy a little visit now and then."

The girl regarded him with flashing eyes and sullen brow.

"You will live to repent," she remarked, as she gathered the child up in her arms and arose to leave the room, "and before this day is ended your punishment shall begin; you shall never know one moment of happiness with the girl whom you have dared to put in my place."

"Bah! all this is idle chatter, Giulia," said Emil Correlli, contemptuously; nevertheless, he paled visibly, and a cold chill ran over him, for somehow her words impressed him as a prophecy.

"What! are you going in such a temper as that?" he added, as she turned toward the door. "Well, when you get over it, let me hear from you occasionally."

"Never fear; you will hear from me oftener than you will like," she flashed out at him, with a look that made him cringe, as she laid her hand upon the knob of the door.

"Stay, Giulia! Aren't you going to let me have a word with Ino? Here, you black-eyed little rascal, haven't you anything to say to your daddy?" he added, in a coaxing tone to the child.

"Mamma, may I talk to papa?" queried the little one, turning a pleading glance upon his mother.

"By the way," interposed the man, before she could reply, "you must put a stop to the youngster calling me that; it might be awkward, you see, if we should happen to meet some time upon the street. I like the little chap well enough, but you must teach him to keep his mouth shut when he comes near me."

"Who taught him the name?" sharply retorted Giulia. "Who boasted how bright and clever he was the first time he uttered the English word?"

Her listener flushed hotly and frowned.

"Your tongue is very sharp, Giulia," he said. "It would be more to your advantage to be upon good terms with me."

She made no reply, but, opening the door, passed out into the hall, he following her.

"As you will," he curtly said; then added, imperatively: "Come this way," and, leading her to the front door, he let her quietly out, glad to be rid of her before the butler or any of the other servants could learn of her presence in the house.

He watched her pass down the steps and out upon the street, then, softly closing the door, went back to the library.

He threw himself into a chair with a long-drawn sigh.

"I am afraid she means mischief," he muttered, with a frown. "I must get Edith away as soon as possible; I would not have them meet for anything. What a little vixen the girl is, curse her!"

He glanced at the clock.

It was five minutes of three, and twenty-fire since he went up to Edith's room.

"It is about time she came down," he mused, with a shrug of impatience.

He arose and paced the room for a few moments, then passed out into the hall and listened.

The house was very still; he could not detect a sound anywhere.

He went slowly upstairs, walked up and down the hall once or twice, then rapped again upon Edith's door.

There was no response from within.

He knocked again.

Still silence!

He tried the door.

It was not locked; it yielded to his touch, and he pushed it open.

A quick glance around showed him that no one was there, and with a great heart-throb of fear he boldly entered.

Everything was exactly as he had left it when, the day before, he had so carefully arranged the room for the girl's comfort and pleasure.

The beautiful dresses hung over the foot-board of the bed—not even a fold had been disturbed—while the elegant sealskin cloak and the dainty hat and muff lay exactly as he had placed them, to display them to the best advantage.

The veins swelled out hard and full on his forehead—a gleam of baffled rage leaped into his eyes.

He sprang to the closet, throwing wide the door.

It was empty.

"She may have gone to the toilet-room," he muttered, grasping at this straw of hope.

He dashed across the hall and rapped upon the door.

But he met with no response.

He entered. The place was empty.

Back into the south chamber he sprang again, and began to search for Edith's hats and wraps.

Not an article of her clothing was visible.

He tried to open her trunk.

Of course it was locked.

He was now white as death, and actually shaking with anger.

He went to the dressing-case and mechanically opened the upper drawer.

All the costly treasures that he had purchased to tempt his bride lay there, exactly as he had placed them; he doubted if she had even seen them.

With a curse on his lips he went out, and looked into every other room on that floor; but it was, of course, a fruitless search.

Then he turned into the rear hall and went down the back stairs.

Ah! the door at the bottom was ajar.

Another moment he was in the lower hall, to find the area door unfastened; then he knew how his bird had flown.

He instantly summoned the servants, and took them to task for their negligence.

Both the cook and the chambermaid avowed that no one but the gas-man had entered or gone out by the area door that afternoon.

But, upon questioning them closely, Emil Correlli ascertained that the outer door had been left unfastened "just a moment, while the man went to the meter, to take the figures."

A close search revealed the fact that the key to the stairway door was missing, and, putting this and that together, the keen-witted man reasoned out just what had happened.

He believed that Giulia had stolen in through the area door close upon the heels of the gas-man; that she had found the key, unlocked the stairway-door, and made her way up to the library to seek an interview with him—he did not once suspect her of having seen Edith—while Edith, upon reconnoitering and finding the back way clear, had taken advantage of the situation and flown.

He was almost frantic with mingled rage and despair.

He angrily berated the servants for their carelessness, and vowed that he would have them discharged; then, having exhausted his vocabulary upon them, he went back to the library, wrathfully cursing Giulia for having forced herself into his presence to distract his attention, and thus allow his captive an opportunity to escape.

Mr. and Mrs. Goddard returned about this time, both looking as if they also had met with some crushing blow, for the former was white and haggard, and the latter wild-eyed, and shivering from time to time, as if from a chill.

Both were apparently too absorbed in some trouble of their own to feel very much disturbed by the flight of Edith, although Mr. Goddard's face involuntarily lighted for an instant when he was told of her escape.

Emil Correlli flew to the nearest telegraph office and dashed off a message to a New York policeman, with whom he had had some dealings while living in that city, giving him a description of Edith, and ordering him, if he could lay his hands upon her, to telegraph back, and then detain her until he could arrive and relieve him of his charge.

He reasoned—and rightly, as we have seen—that Edith, would be more likely to return to her old home, where she knew every crook and turn, rather than to seek refuge in Boston, where she was friendless and a comparative stranger.

A few hours later he received a reply from the policeman, giving him an account of his adventure with Miss Edith Allandale and her escort.

"By heavens, she shall not thus escape me!" he exclaimed; and at once made rapid preparations for a journey.

Half an hour afterward he was on the eleven o'clock express train, in pursuit of the fair fugitive, in a state of mind that was far from enviable.