Lazily smoking before the fire in my chambers a fortnight afterwards, with my feet upon the fender, I had given myself up to reflection. My reverie was somewhat puzzling, for, truth to tell, I was in love, and the object of my affection was none other than Wanda Elworthy. Her face smiled down upon me from a cabinet photograph that stood upon the mantel-shelf; yet, as the smoke curled before it, I could not help thinking how much it resembled that of her unhappy mother. Suddenly my meditations were interrupted by a loud rat-tat at the door. Opening it, I was surprised to discover a lady, who passed me without a word, and entered my sitting-room. Closing the door I followed her, and found it was Mrs. Elworthy. “Good afternoon,” I said, halting before the fire, with my hands behind my back. “I confess I’m puzzled, madam, as to the object of this call.” Frowning slightly, she tapped the floor impatiently with her shapely foot. “My object is to come to terms with you.” “Then you admit your guilt?” I remarked, amazed. “It is useless, I suppose, to deny it. You have discovered my secret, and I am prepared to pay the price you name.” Her features were pale and set—a haggard face almost statuesque. “Pardon me, madam,” I replied warmly; “I decline to accept gold as a bribe to conceal the murder of my friend.” “You misunderstand me. I have no intention of offering you money.” “Then what request have you to make, pray?” I asked, looking fixedly at her. “You know the original of that photograph behind you?” she exclaimed in a harsh, strained voice, pointing at it. “I do.” “It has come to my knowledge that you love her.” I nodded, but did not speak. “Then the object of my visit is to make a compact with you. It is this: If you will marry Wanda within three months from to-day she shall have a dowry of twenty thousand pounds.” We were both silent for a moment. Then I said— “Which proposal means that you are prepared to sacrifice your daughter for the preservation of your own secret, eh?” She did reply, but bowed her head in humiliation. “Madam,” I said severely, “I admit I love Wanda, but your proposition is absolutely loathsome.” “Think—think—she cares for you! Besides, if you had money you would no longer be compelled to work for an existence.” “Impossible,” I replied decisively. “Ah, don’t say that!” she cried hoarsely, as, with a sudden impulse, she threw herself upon her knees before me. “See! I implore you for mercy. God knows I have tried to atone and do my duty, but I yielded to temptation, and this is my punishment!” Drawing a long breath, she burst into tears. “You—you do not know all, Anton Prèhznev, or you would find the circumstances extenuating,” she sobbed bitterly. “I—I confess it was I who poisoned Ivan! He—he was my son!” “Your son?”