“Now you are speaking very sensibly,” he rejoined, leading her into the music-room and closing the door carefully after them, to insure their not being overheard by any of the servants. Queenie was so thoroughly in his power that he knew he need have no hesitancy in telling her his plans from beginning to end, without fear of her daring to expose him; on the contrary, he would force her to aid him in his determination to win the Dinsmore millions. He began at the beginning, telling her of much that she did not know, of that duel on the sands at Newport, on her account, in which he had, as he believed, mortally wounded his adversary, John Dinsmore. He saw her start, and turn deadly pale, but he went on, hurriedly: “He lingered for some weeks, but in the end succumbed to his injuries.” “Murderer!” gasped Queenie. “Oh, God! he is dead, then! dead!” Raymond Challoner looked at her coolly, as he replied: “We do not call affairs of honor by such a hard name as that which just now passed your lips, my dear madam. We took our chances, one against the other; that was fair play. He was as liable to shoot me as I was to shoot him. It was not like willfully planning in secret and carrying out a deliberate murder.” Queenie fell back in her seat, powerless to reply. She knew but too well the meaning he would convey by those words. She made no further attempt to interrupt him, and he related the tale, which sounded to her ears like some weird romance, of how he was _en route_ to the races at New Orleans, and the accident which necessitated his remaining over at the crossroads for the next train, which would not come along for some hours; of the interesting story the old landlord had told him of the death of some man in England who was worth many millions, and the extraordinary will he had left behind him, namely, that half of his estate should go to his nephew, John Dinsmore, and the other half to a young girl who had been brought up as a foundling upon the estate, provided these two should marry. “The young girl,” he went on, “resided upon an estate known as Blackheath Hall, in the vicinity where I was at that time. The man was your one-time lover, Dinsmore, whom you considerately threw over for me.” Again Queenie’s lips moved, but no sound came from them. He could see that she was vitally interested in his narrative--indeed, she scarcely moved or breathed even, during the recital; her eyes were riveted upon his face, as though spellbound. “You will wonder how all this is of interest to you, Queenie. I am fast nearing that point. I must tell you all, that you may better understand the exact situation.