“But at last there came a day when she gave her heart away-- If that rightly be called giving which is neither choice nor will, But a charm, a fascination, a wild, sweet exultation-- All the fresh young life outgoing in a strong, ecstatic thrill.” When Raymond Challoner regained his feet he was just in time to see the girl disappearing behind a thicket of alder bushes. To say that he was in a beastly temper by this time but faintly describes the situation--he was furious. For one moment he paused and pondered as he shook the dust from his eyes, which would pay him best; to search for the horse that had played him so shabby a trick, or make his way on to the village, which was not more than three-quarters of a mile distant at the farthest. He concluded that the latter course would be best. He would lose more time in trying to dispose of the animal there than the amount received would profit him, if it delayed him on his journey beyond the possibility of being in New Orleans in time for the races. He was a swift walker, and as he hurried along he beguiled the time by thinking over past events--a thing he rarely allowed himself to do, but somehow he could not get John Dinsmore--Queenie Trevalyn’s defender--out of his thoughts. He had only seen the doctor once since that midnight affair when he had left his adversary lying dying, as he supposed, on the white sands; then, the doctor had come to him, reporting the fact that he had had the injured man conveyed, under an assumed name, to a nearby cottage; but that it was his opinion at the present moment, that the man against whom Ray Challoner had turned his weapon would not live to see another sunrise. “So much the better,” he answered, looking full in the doctor’s face, adding: “If he dies, let him be buried under that assumed name, and the world at large will be none the wiser for his taking off.” “You forget that he had two friends who would interest themselves to make inquiry and search for him,” the doctor had answered, but Challoner remembered the answer he had made him: “Tell them that he arose from his bed in his delirium and dashed down upon the sands and threw himself into the breakers, and was never seen again.” “You have a very fertile and imaginative brain, Challoner,” the doctor had remarked, dryly; “rather than let this affair come to light, if it should turn out disastrously, I shall act upon your suggestion.” Ray Challoner had little time to ruminate further, for he was already in the streets of the little village of Greenville. The appearance of the handsome, aristocratic young gentleman walking in on foot quite astounded the landlord of the Greenville Hotel, the most pretentious place in the village. “Could he have a good meal, and after that, engage somebody to take him by carriage on to New Orleans?” queried Challoner.