“Why, your meeting the little Jess, after all, and marrying her out of hand, without going near Blackheath Hall, and she not dreaming of your real identity, sounds like a chapter from a novel. By George! what a capital story it would make!” “The climax to it is quite unsavory, though,” replied John Dinsmore, and in answer to the looks of astonishment on his companions’ faces, he drew forth the letter from his breast pocket, into which he had crushed it, and in a low, husky voice read its contents slowly aloud to them. “Eloped with an old lover!” echoed Ballou, amazedly, while Jerry Gaines asked in a tone which he strove not to appear excited: “What was the address you read, of the house where she was visiting, John?” He re-read the address, giving the street and number. Both Gaines and Ballou turned and looked at each other fixedly. “Isn’t that the address of the young widow who married the supposedly rich old miser Brown for his millions, and got beautifully left for her pains--finding herself next door to a pauper on the reading of the will?” “It appears so,” replied Gaines, knitting his brows in deep thought, then suddenly he leaned over and touched Ballou on the arm, saying: “Do you know I have a very odd idea? You remember the young fellow whom we afterward recognized as he was coming out of that house, just as we were about to enter to learn the particulars of that will, and get a chance to talk with and sketch the beautiful young widow?” “Yes; I have every reason to remember him,” nodded Ballou, in a peculiar voice, adding: “Well, what of him?” “I believe that he is the infernal scoundrel who has eloped with John’s little bride--for the reason that I went past the place the following afternoon, and saw him at the drawing-room window talking to just such a young girl as I now remember little Jess to be from the picture she sent to John while he lay ill at Newport, and which we saw.” “You know the villain!” exclaimed John, springing from his seat trembling with excitement. “For Heaven’s sake tell me, and quickly, who he is, that I may follow him and shoot him down like the cur that he is, or rather pit my life against his to wipe out this stain with which he has dared to smirch the honor of my name.” “Give me until to-morrow this time to locate him and find whether I am right or wrong, John,” asked Jerry Gaines. “This is a matter into which no man can rush headlong. I will find out beyond a doubt if my suspicions be true. If they are, you shall be put on his track, and when you meet him, you shall deal with him as you see best. Is that satisfactory?” “I suppose it must be, if you say so,” replied John Dinsmore, sinking back into his chair, his face ghastly pale, every nerve in his entire body quivering with the deep agitation he was undergoing.