It had been an exciting day to her, being brought face to face with her old lover whom she had mourned as dead, and more exciting still to learn of the barrier which fate had raised between them in the shape of John Dinsmore’s bride--Jess, the girl who had been living under her own roof as her guest. What would Raymond Challoner do, and say, she wondered, when she informed him that the real John Dinsmore was alive, and more astounding still, was wedded to the girl whom he was laying his plans to win, because of her fortune? What vengeance would the arch-plotter take when he found his grand scheme for millions lying in ruins at his feet? Queenie feared that he would not lose an instant in putting John Dinsmore out of the way most securely, and still have the effrontery to attempt to carry out his scheme, should it become known to him that the little bride, Jess, did not know the real identity of the man whom she had wedded. Should she tell him that John Dinsmore lived, and that Jess was his wife, or not? That was the troublous question she asked herself over and over again. “He must not harm one hair of John Dinsmore’s head,” she muttered fiercely. “For he will be mine as soon as he can free himself from the ties which now bind him.” Then her thoughts took another turn. A scheme came to her worthy of the arch-fiend himself. Yes, it was feasible, and it should be carried out. It was almost dawn when Queenie threw herself upon her couch. She fell into a deep sleep, and it was almost noon when she awoke the next day, tired still, and unrefreshed. “Was it all a dream?” she muttered, as she rubbed her eyes and gazed at Jess, who stood by the window in her room, patiently waiting for her to awaken--Jess, with the happiest smile she had ever seen on that dimpled young face, a smile as bright as the morning itself. “You lazy, beautiful queen!” cried the girl, springing to her side, “how long you are sleeping to-day, and I longing to talk with you. I felt like awakening you with a shower of kisses.” Queenie drew back from her embrace with repellent coldness. Down in the depths of her heart she hated with a deadly hatred this girl who had the right to kiss the face of the man whom she loved, and who bore his name. “What is the matter, Queenie? Are you not well?” exclaimed Jess, with earnest solicitude. “Why, your hands are like ice; even your lips are cold.” “I have a headache. If you don’t mind, I’d rather be alone for a little while,” she replied, abruptly. Without another word Jess turned slowly and quitted the boudoir, wondering greatly at the change of manner of her new-found friend, and wondering if she had possibly done anything to offend her. But upon reaching her own room Jess forgot very quickly all about Queenie and her grievance, in giving herself up to her delicious daydreams of the future that awaited her with the reappearance of her handsome, dignified husband.