“There is little more to say other than that he has rank, is brilliant, fascinating, and rich, so the idea of your sister’s riches would not have influence with him.” “Who is this paragon?” “The man I love.” “This from a wife to a husband?” “Why not, from an outraged wife to a demon husband who has turned the purest love into the bitterest hate? Yes, I do love him, and when I saw that he loved your sister then I decided, especially as I had another reason, that I would not raise a hand to save your neck.” “Who is this man?” “One who has a sentiment. Years ago, when a young cadet, he saw a portrait in an art-gallery of a face he became fascinated with. That portrait had been painted by a young artist of his lady-love, one whom he hopelessly loved, so the story went. “He was refused and took to a life of dissipation to drown the anguish of his unrequited love. He went to the dogs, and at last, to buy rum, parted with all he had left in that portrait. It was put into an art exhibition by the purchaser and won the first prize, a gold medal and a thousand dollars. “The purchaser hastened to the studio of the artist to give him the medal and share with him the prize-money, and found him sitting dead in his chair, his palette and brush still grasped in his hand. He had just finished painting a likeness of himself, seated at a table with Death, a grim skeleton, throwing dice together, and with a decanter and glasses between them. “The owner of the portrait was so impressed by the death of the young artist, and his last painting, entitled ‘The Last Chance,’ that he sold them both to a dealer, for he took charge of the remains and had them decently buried. The purchaser of one of these portraits was the man I love, for he fell in love with the portrait of his ideal of womanhood and paid a large sum for it. He has it with him to-day. The other portrait was purchased by the artist’s rival, who married the maiden who discarded him. Do you remember the story, Arden?” “Perfectly, for the portrait was of my mother, of whom my sister was a perfect likeness, and my father purchased the painting of ‘The Last Chance,’ and it is in the old homestead to-day.” “You are right, for so your sister told this man of whom I speak. He told me of the portrait, of his purchasing it, and the story he had heard regarding the artist. She at once told him the name of the artist, and more, that ‘The Last Chance’ was her property, for the story was talked of last night in my presence. “Having fallen in love with the portrait, keeping it as his ideal of a woman, when he met its counterpart, in your sister, he naturally loved her at once. Could I work against such a cruel fate as that to win that man? Oh, no, I know when I am defeated, and I gave up the game, for the cards were against me, and, though tempted, I would not commit a crime to win. Now shall I tell you who this man is that loved an ideal and found the real?” “Yes.” “_Colonel Dunwoody_,” was the answer.