But calmer thoughts stepped in and forbade this indulgence of his spleen. After all, what could he say to the young man? What did he know wherewith to accuse him? His anonymous informant had only said that his wife and the artist had been former lovers. What, then? How the gay world would have laughed if he picked a quarrel with the lion of the hour on such a charge as that. Many of the women whom Colonel Carlyle knew would have deemed it an honor to have been loved either in the past or present by the gifted artist. No, there was nothing he could say to the man on the subject, yet he determined that he would at least watch him closely, and if--if there should be even the faintest attempt on his part to revive the intimacy of the past, then woe unto him, for Colonel Carlyle was nerved to almost any act of frenzy. * * * * * Bonnibel lifted her head when the colonel was gone and looked at her faithful attendant with a face on which death itself seemed to have set its seal. "Oh, me! Miss Bonnibel, you are as white as a ghost," exclaimed Lucy. "And no wonder! It is a bad cut, though not very deep. Does it hurt you very much?" "What are you talking of, Lucy? What _should_ hurt me?" inquired her mistress in a wild, startled tone, showing that she had quite forgotten her wound. "Why, the cut on your head, to be sure," said Lucy in surprise. "Oh! Heaven, I had forgotten that," moaned the poor young creature. "I do not feel the pain, Lucy, for the wound in my heart is much deeper. It is of that only I am thinking." She bowed her face in her hands and deep, smothered moans shook her from head to foot. The delicate frame reeled and shook with emotion like some slender reed shaken by a storm. Lucy knelt down at her feet and implored her mistress to tell her what she could do to help her in her trouble, whatever it might be. "Miss Bonnibel," she urged, "tell me something that I can do for you--anything, no matter what, to help you out of your trouble if I can." Bonnibel hushed her sobs by a great effort of will, and looked down at the faithful creature. "Bring me my writing-desk, Lucy," she said, "and I will tell you what you can do for me." Lucy complied in wondering silence. Bonnibel took out a creamy white sheet, smooth as satin, and wrote a few lines upon it with a shaking hand. Then she dashed her pen several times through the elaborate monogram "B.C." at the top of the sheet. "Lucy," she said, as she inclosed her note in an envelope and hastily addressed it, "do you remember a gentleman who used to visit at Sea View before my Uncle Francis died--a Mr. Dane?" "Perfectly well, ma'am," Lucy responded, promptly. "He was an artist." "Yes, he was an artist. Should you know him again, Lucy?" "I think I should, ma'am. He was very handsome, with dark eyes and hair," said the girl, who was by no means behind her sex in her appreciation of manly beauty.