“Not for this whole world would I marry you, Raymond Challoner. I would sooner die.” “Do not decide too hastily, my fair enemy,” he returned, mockingly. “Remember, ‘discretion is the better part of valor,’ as the old saw goes. I shall leave you now, for it would never do for us to be found here together. I will see you early on the morrow.” Before she was aware of what he was about to do, he had raised her jeweled hand to his lips, kissed and dropped it, and the door was closing softly after him. When the doctor arrived, and the servants ushered him into the sick room, they found the beautiful young bride lying prone upon her face in a dead faint by the side of the still, stark form lying in his last sleep upon the couch. “Dead!” exclaimed the doctor briefly, at the first glance at the old millionaire’s rigid features. Then he turned his attention at once to the grief-stricken woman, who had apparently swooned ere she could summon help in her dying husband’s last moments. Neither the doctor nor the servants would have pitied her so deeply could they have seen her when she returned to consciousness in her own boudoir an hour or so later. She dismissed the maid who was watching over her; then sprang from the couch and paced the floor up and down like a veritable demon in woman’s form. “Was it for that that I dared and accomplished so terrible a crime?” she whispered, clutching her hands tightly over her heart. “No, a thousand times no, for I hate Raymond Challoner with all the strength of my heart and soul. I only wanted to be free from the shackles of iron which bound me, that I might recall the only man I have ever loved--John Dinsmore. And now, when success dawns for me, another cloud, more formidable than the one which has just been dissipated, gathers over me. “I shall never marry Raymond Challoner, that he may share the wealth which will be mine, while we both know in our secret hearts that we detest each other. Let come what will, I will defy him to do his worst, and in the meantime I will recall him whom I sent from me.” And through her brain rang the fateful words: “And when your love has conquered pride and anger, I know that you will call me back again.” Her riotous reverie was suddenly cut short by the entrance of her mother. “Oh, my darling, my precious Queenie! We have just heard through one of the servants, who came hurrying to us with the awful intelligence, of his death, and I could scarcely credit the news until I came and saw for myself.” The mother and daughter looked steadily at each other, each reading the other’s thoughts.