"Well done, madam! you managed to pull the wool over his eyes in very good shape," the man remarked, a look of evil triumph sweeping over his face.

"Certainly, Mr. Correlli," the woman returned, in a tone of serene satisfaction. "Only give me my price, and I am ready to make anybody believe that black is white, every time; and now I'll take that five hundred, if you please," she concluded, as she extended her fat hand for the plump fee for which she had been so zealously working.

"You shall have it—you shall have it; I will write you a check for it immediately," said Monsieur Correlli. "But—you are sure there is no one in the house who knows anything about the facts of the case?" he added, inquiringly, after a moment of thought.

"Yes, I am sure; I haven't a single servant now that was with me when the girl was here."

"Have you any idea where they went after leaving you?" asked the man, with evident uneasiness.

"Lor', no; you needn't have the slightest fear of their turning up," responded his companion, with a light laugh. "That lawyer might as well try to hunt for a needle in a hay-mow as to seek them as witnesses against you; while, as for the lodgers who were here at the time, not one of them knew anything about your affairs. By the way," she added, curiously, "what has become of the girl?"

"She followed me to Boston, and is there now, doubtless."

"Would she be likely to know anything about the laws of New York regarding marriage?"

"No, indeed; she is a perfect ignoramus as far as any knowledge of the customs of this country is concerned."

"That is lucky for you; but, if you know where she can be found, I would advise you to send her back to Italy with all possible dispatch. She is liable to make trouble for you if she learns the truth, for"—madam here shot a sly look at her companion—"a man can't live a year or two with a woman here in New York, allowing her to believe herself his wife, and her child to call him 'papa'—paying all her bills, without giving her a pretty strong claim upon him. However, mum's the word with me, provided I get my pay for it," she concluded, with a knowing wink.

Emil Correlli frowned at her coarse familiarity and the indirect threat implied in her last words; but, simply remarking that he "would draw that check," he returned to the room whence he had come, while his companion turned to a window, chuckling softly to herself.

Presently he reappeared and slipped into her hand a check for five hundred dollars.

"Now, in case this matter should come to court, I shall rely upon you to swear that the girl's story is false and the lawyer's charge simply a romance of his imagination," he remarked.

"You may depend on me, sir—I will not fail you," madam responded, as, with a complacent look, she neatly folded the check and deposited it in her purse.

Emil Correlli had arrived in New York very early the same morning, and, not caring to have his presence there known, he had sought a room in the house of the woman with whom Giulia had boarded for nearly two years.

Having partaken of a light breakfast, he went out again to seek the policeman to whom he had telegraphed to detain Edith.

He readily found him, when he learned all that we already know of the man's efforts to obey Correlli's orders.

"That was the girl, in spite of the lawyer's interference. You should have never let her go," he angrily exclaimed, when the officer had described Edith and told his story.

"But I couldn't, sir—I had no authority—no warrant—and I should have got myself into trouble," the man objected, adding: "The lawyer was a shrewd one and had a high and mighty way with him that made a fellow go into his boots and fight shy of him."

Monsieur Correlli knew that the man was right, and saw that he must make the best of the situation; so, taking possession of Roy's card, and making his way directly to Broadway, he prowled about the vicinity of his office to see what he could discover.

He had not waited very long when his heart bounded as he caught sight of Edith coming down the street and escorted by a handsome, manly fellow, whose beaming face and adoring eyes plainly betrayed his secret to the jealous watcher, who gnashed his teeth in fury at the sight.

The happy, unconscious couple soon disappeared within an office building, whereupon Correlli went back to his lodgings to lay his plans for future operations.

Some hours later, while he was conversing with his landlady in her pretty parlor, he was startled to see Edith's champion of the morning mounting the steps of the house.

Like a flash he seemed to comprehend the object of his visit there; but he was puzzled to understand how it was possible for either Edith or him to know that he or Giulia had ever lived there.

A few rapid words were sufficient to reveal the situation to his landlady, to whom he promised a liberal reward if she would implicitly follow his directions.

The result we know; and, although his bribe had been a heavy one, he did not begrudge the money, since he believed he had thus securely fortified himself against all attacks from the enemy.

Later in the day he attempted to dog the young lawyer's steps, hoping thus to ferret out Edith's hiding place; but nothing satisfactory resulted, for Roy, after his hard and somewhat disappointing day, simply repaired to his club, where, after partaking of his dinner and smoking a cigar to soothe his nerves, he retired to rest.

But the next morning, feeling secure of his position, Emil Correlli boldly presented himself in his rival's office and demanded of him Edith's address.

Roy was prepared for him, for his fruitless visit to Giulia's former landlady had aroused his suspicions that Monsieur Correlli was in the city.

Therefore he had resolved neither to evade nor parley with him, but boldly defy the man, by acknowledging himself the wronged girl's champion and legal adviser.

"I cannot give you Miss Allandale's address," he quietly responded to his visitor's demand.

"Do you mean to imply that you do not know it?" he questioned, arrogantly.

"Not at all, sir; the lady is under my protection, as my client; therefore, in her interest I refuse to reveal her place of residence," Roy coolly responded.

"But she is my wife, and I have a right to know where she is," said the would-be husband, his anger flaming up hotly at being thus balked in his desires.

"Your wife?" repeated the young lawyer, in an incredulous tone, but growing white about the mouth from the effort he made to retain command of himself, as the obnoxious term fell from the villain's lips.

"Certainly—I claim her as such; my right to do so cannot be questioned."

"There may be a difference of opinion regarding that matter," Roy calmly rejoined.

"But we were publicly married on the twenty-fifth."

"Ah! but there are circumstances under which even such a ceremony can have no legal significance."

The fiery Italian was no match for the lawyer in that cool, calm mood, and his anger increased as he realized it.

"But I have my certificate, and can produce plenty of witnesses to prove my statements," he retorted.

"The court will decide whether your evidence is sufficient to substantiate your claim," Mr. Bryant composedly remarked.

"The court?—will she take the matter into court?—will she dare create such a scandal?" exclaimed the man, in a startled tone.

"I do not feel at liberty, even had I the inclination, to reveal any points in my client's case," coldly replied the young lawyer. "This much I will say, however," he added, sternly, "I shall leave nothing undone to free her from a tie that is both hateful and fraudulent."

"I warn you that you will have a battle to fight that will cost you something," snarled the baffled villain.

"That also remains to be seen, sir; but whether you or I win this battle, let me tell you, once for all, that Miss Allandale will never submit to any authority which you may imagine you have acquired over her by tricking her into this so-called marriage; she will never live one hour with you; she will never respond to your name."

Royal Bryant arose as he concluded this defiant speech, thus intimating to his visitor that he wished to put an end to the interview, for the curb that he was putting upon himself was becoming almost unbearable.

Emil Correlli gazed searchingly into his face for a moment, as if trying to measure his foe.

He could not fail to realize the superiority of the man, mentally, morally and physically, and the thought was maddening that perhaps Edith had freely given to him the love for which he had abjectly sued in vain.

"Well," he finally remarked, as he also arose, while he revealed his white teeth in a vicious smile, "it may be in her power to carry out that resolution, but one thing is sure, she can never free herself from the fetters which she finds so galling—she can never marry any other man while I live."

This shot told, for the blue veins in Roy's temples suddenly swelled out full at the malignant retort.

But he mastered his first impulse to seize the wretch and throw him from the window into the street, and quietly remarked:

"As I have twice before observed, sir, all these things remain to be seen and proved. Now, can I do anything further for you to-day?"

The man could not do otherwise than take the hint; besides, there was that in Roy's eye which warned him that it would not be safe for him to try him too far. So, abruptly turning upon his heel, he left the room, while our young lawyer, with tightly compressed lips and care-lined brow, walked the floor in troubled thought.

After leaving his office Emil Correlli repaired to the hotel where his letters were usually sent, and found awaiting him there a telegram announcing the sudden death of his sister and requesting his immediate return to Boston.

Shocked beyond measure, and grieved to the soul by this unexpected bereavement, he dropped everything and left New York on the next eastward express.

We know all that occurred in that home where death had come so unexpectedly; how, after the burial of Mrs. Goddard, Emil Correlli had suddenly found his already large fortune greatly augmented by the strange will of his sister, while the man whom she had always professed to adore was left destitute, and to shift for himself as best he could.

The day after he had turned Gerald Goddard out of his home, so to speak, the young man dismissed all his servants, closed the house, and put it into the hands of a real estate agent to be disposed of at the best advantage.

He made an effort to find Giulia and her child, with the intention of settling a comfortable income upon them, provided he could make the girl promise to return to Italy and never trouble him again.

But she had disappeared, and he could learn absolutely nothing regarding her movements; and, impressed with a feeling that she would yet revenge herself upon him in some unexpected way, he finally returned to New York, determined to ferret out Edith's hiding place.

Meantime the fair girl had been very happy with her new friends, who were also growing very fond of her.

But she would not allow herself to build too much upon the hope of attaining her freedom which Roy had tried to arouse in her heart shortly after her arrival in New York.

Indeed, she had begun to notice that, after the first day or two, he had avoided conversing upon the subject, while he often wore a look of anxiety and care which betrayed that he was deeply troubled about something.

In fact, Roy was very heavy-hearted, for, since his failure to learn anything from Giulia's former landlady to prove his theory correct, he had begun to fear that it would be a very difficult matter to free the girl he loved from the chain that bound her to Correlli.

If he could have found the discarded girl herself he believed that, with her assistance, he would soon discover the servants who had been in the house during her residence there, and, through them, find some substantial evidence to work upon.

But although he had advertised for her in several Boston papers, he had not been able to get any trace of her.

He had, however, filed a plea to have Edith's so-called marriage set aside, and was anxiously waiting for some time to be appointed for a hearing of the' case.

Edith and her new acquaintance, Mr. Raymond, were fast becoming firm friends, in spite of the suspense that was hanging over the former regarding her future.

The young girl had first been drawn toward the invalid from a feeling of sympathy, and because of his old-time fondness for her mother. But, upon becoming better acquainted with him, she began to admire him for his many noble qualities, both of mind and heart, while she ever found him a most entertaining companion, as he possessed an exhaustless fund of anecdote and personal experiences, acquired during his extensive travels, which he never wearied of relating when he could find an appreciative listener.

Thus she spent a great deal of time with him, while by her many little attentions to his comfort she won a large place in his heart.

One day Mrs. Morrell and Edith went to attend a charity exhibition that was under the supervision of a friend of the former, at her own house.

Upon their arrival they were ushered into the drawing-room, which was beautifully decorated and hung with many exquisite paintings, while some rare gems were resting conspicuously upon easels.

In one corner, and artistically draped with a beautiful scarf, Edith was startled, almost at the moment of her entrance, to see a painting that was very familiar.

It was that representing a portion of an old Roman wall, with the lovers resting in its shadow, which had attracted the attention of Mrs. Stewart on the last night of the "winter frolic," at Wyoming.

With an expression of astonishment she went forward to examine it more closely and to assure herself that it was the original, and not a copy.

Yes, those two tiny letters, G. G., in one corner, told their own story, and proved her surmise to be correct.

"How strange that it should be here!" she breathed.

She had hardly uttered the words when some one arose from behind the easel, and—she stood face to face with Gerald Goddard himself.

The girl stood white and almost paralyzed before him, and the man appeared scarcely less astonished on beholding her.

"Miss Allen!" he faltered. "I never dreamed of meeting you here!"

"Oh, pray do not tell Monsieur Correlli that you have seen me," she gasped, fear for the moment superseding every other thought.

"Do not be troubled—he shall learn nothing from me," said the man, reassuringly. "Correlli and I are not very good friends just now, simply because I told him that I should do all in my power to help you prove that he had no just claim upon you."

"Thank you," said Edith, flushing with hope, but involuntarily shrinking from him, for she could not forget how he had degraded himself before her on that last horrible night at Wyoming.

"I suppose you have heard of my—of Mrs. Goddard's death?" he remarked, after a moment of silence.

"Mrs. Goddard—dead?" exclaimed Edith, shocked beyond expression.

"Yes, she died very suddenly, the second morning after you left Boston."

Edith was about to respond with some expression of regret and sympathy, when she saw him start violently, and a look of agony, that bordered on despair, leap into his eyes.

Involuntarily she turned to see what had caused it, and was both surprised and delighted to behold Mrs. Stewart—whom she supposed to be in Boston—just entering the room, and looking especially lovely in a rich black velvet costume, with a hat to match, but brightened by two or three exquisite pink roses.

At that instant a lady, to whom she had recently been introduced, laid her hand upon Edith's arm, remarking in quick, incisive tones:

"Miss Allandale, your friend, Mrs. Morrell, is beckoning you to come to her."

Again Gerald Goddard started, and so violently that he nearly knocked his picture from the easel.

He shot one quick, horrified glance at the girl.

"Miss Allandale!" he repeated, in a dazed tone, as all that the name implied forced itself upon his mind.

Another in the room had also caught the name, and turned to see who had been thus addressed.

As her glance fell upon Edith her beautiful face grew radiant.

"Oh, if it should be—" she breathed.

The next moment she had crossed the room to the girl's side.

"What did Mrs. Baldwin call you, dear?" she breathlessly inquired, regardless of etiquette, for she had not yet greeted her hostess. "Was it Miss Allandale?"

"Yes, that is my name," said Edith, flushing, but frankly meeting her look of eager inquiry.

"But you told me—" Mrs. Stewart whispered.

"Yes," interposed the young girl, "while I was in Boston I was known simply as Edith Allen—why, I will explain to you at some other time; but my real name is Edith Allandale."

The woman seemed turned to stone for a moment by this unexpected revelation, so statue-like did she become, as she also realized all that this confession embodied.

Then, as if compelled by some magnetic influence, her eyes were drawn toward the no less statue-like man standing by that never-to-be forgotten picture on the easel.

Their gaze met, and each read in that one brief look the conviction that made one heart bound with joy, the other to sink with despair—each knew that the beautiful girl, standing so wonderingly beside that stately woman, was the child that had been born to them in the pretty Italian villa hard by the old Roman wall which Gerald Goddard had so faithfully reproduced upon canvas.