Laying the letter aside, she wrote a note to her husband, enclosing her personal check for five hundred dollars and requesting him to bring the currency that evening. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was almost four o’clock. Addressing two envelopes, one to Lord Avondale and the other to her husband, she hastily enclosed the letters and rang for her maid, requesting her to deliver them at once. “I want the captain’s letter handed to him before the bank closes. Call at the bank first, and afterward on Lord Avondale at the hotel. If he is out, push it under the door of his room.” The maid hurried away, and Mrs. Osborn turned to her toilet, determined to surpass herself, in point of beauty and fascinating allurements, when Avondale should call that evening. It was a question whether it was adoration or adorers that she courted most. It was scarcely four o’clock when one of the bank clerks informed Hugh that Captain Osborn wanted to see him in his private room. As Hugh entered the apartments of the president, he noticed that his old friend was under a strain of great excitement. His face was very white and his hands trembled. “Close the door, Stanton,” said Captain Osborn, with forced calmness. “Perhaps you had better turn the key. I have something of a very private nature to talk to you about.” Hugh complied with his requests, and, as he seated himself, Captain Osborn handed him his wife’s letter. “You will observe,” said he, “the envelope is addressed to me. Please read the letter carefully.” As Hugh perused the billet-doux, he discovered that clever Mrs. Osborn had at last entrapped herself, and, by mistake, had enclosed the letter for Avondale in the envelope addressed to her husband. “My old friend,” said Hugh, after he had read the letter to the end, “I am not only heartily sorry for you, but I stand ready to do your bidding in any way within my power.” He held out his hand, which Captain Osborn grasped eagerly. “Ah, Hugh,” he replied, huskily, “there are many sorrows in life, but those which have to do with the heart cause the most suffering. Happiness at best, where a woman is concerned, is usually coextensive with our ignorance. Do not think that I have been entirely blind in the months past. We all have sorrows, but it really seems to me that I have had my heart-strings tugged at rather more than my share. I should have killed that scoundrel of a fortune-hunter months ago; I would have done so, had it not been for little Harry,—poor little chap, I love him so tenderly that I don’t want the blot of murder on his family name,—it is not fair to bequeath dishonor to such a loving little fellow.” Hugh hardly knew what to say, the captain seemed so noble, so deserving of respect and pity. Presently he said: “Had we not better secure the letter written by your wi—Mrs. Osborn to you? It might help us to act more intelligently.”