What would it be? Was he coming to her, and when? What would he say? Would she get to the root of the mystery which had separated them, and thrown her, bound and captive, into the hands of Hanson? These thoughts rushed tumultuously through her mind as she seized the letter, hurried upstairs to her own room, locked the door, threw herself into a chair, tore open the envelope, and read: “LADY: I cannot come. I cannot explain. I am accursed from your presence forever, into the outer darkness of absence and silence. W. H.” Roma gazed at these lines in a trance of amazement. What could they mean? What was the mystery? Still she could think no evil of him. It seemed impossible for her to do so. “This is the worst of all,” she said; “this is the very worst of all. My poor Will is insane. I can no longer hide the truth from myself. Insane, and under some strange delusion of which that villain Hanson took advantage. Oh, Heavenly Father!” she moaned, as a dark cloud of despair gathered over her spirit, “help him in his great need, and help me! I must not break down now. I must be strong. Yes, I must be strong, and—patient.” CHAPTER X A MISSING YACHT In New York yachting circles there had been much wonder and speculation as to the whereabouts of William Hanson’s fine, fast-sailing cutter, the _Roma_, for nothing authentic had been heard of the yacht or her owner since the last week in the preceding November, when she was reported to have sailed from Washington for the Isle of Storms. Many conflicting rumors were afloat concerning her and him, some to the effect that he had sailed for the Mediterranean, others that he had gone to the Caribbean Sea; and still others that he was cruising off the coast of South America. All agreed that the irresponsible young fellow had really gone off to “parts unknown,” without taking the trouble to advise any one of his intended destination. His stepmother and her family were so accustomed to his eccentric movements and utter negligence of all domestic ties, that they scarcely gave the matter a thought, very indifferently taking it for granted that he knew how to take care of himself, and that he was perfectly safe—somewhere! But they were all wrong—sportsmen, friends and family. To go back a little. When Hanson recovered from his intoxication, to find his captive flown, and himself made a prisoner of the elements on the Isle of Storms, entirely cut off from communication with all the rest of the world by the loss of the boats, which had been carried away in the terrible tornado of November 17th, he felt a certain grim sense of humor in the irony of a blind fate that had reversed his condition from that of a jailer to that of a captive. He laughed bitterly to think how completely he was caught in his own trap.