“Ugh! but it gives me a sickly feeling in spite of myself,” he said at length, as he went back to the table and began to gather up the papers scattered there. He folded the pictures in their wrappers as he had found them, putting the auburn lock of hair between them, though the touch of it sent the cold chills down his back and another fierce oath to his lips. He gazed curiously again at the piece of parchment with the peculiar writing upon it, and wondered if it contained any meaning of importance but he at last arranged everything just as he had found it, folding the outside wrapper carefully over all. He then melted a little wax from Editha’s stand, and dropped upon it to fasten it, after which he carefully pressed the original seal into its proper place. It was all very neatly and nicely done, and no one save an expert would ever have imagined that the package had been tampered with at all. He replaced it just as he had found it in the private drawer of the safe, locked it, closed and locked the safe, and then stole noiselessly away to his own chamber, and to bed. But no sleep came to him that night, “to weigh his eyelids down, or steep his senses in forgetfulness.” Visions of the past seemed to haunt him with a vividness which appeared to arouse every evil passion in his nature. He tossed incessantly on his pillow, and groaned, and raged, and swore, first at himself and then at all the world, for some wrong, real or imaginary, which he had suffered during the earlier years of his life. Some secret he evidently had on his mind, which filled him first with remorse and then with anger; and so the night wore out and morning broke, and found him haggard, hollow-eyed, and exhausted from the storm of fury which had raged so long in his soul. What was it? What was this strange secret connected with his previous history with Earle Wayne, and with the beautiful woman whose pictures he had found in the package which had been given into Richard Forrester’s hands for safe keeping? CHAPTER VII EDITHA’S RESOLUTION Everybody who knows anything about Newport—the Brighton of America—knows that the season there is one long scene of gayety, pleasure, and splendor. And this year bade fair to eclipse all previous years owing to the unusual brilliancy and elegance of its entertainments, its incessant round of pleasure, the presence of numberless beautiful women, with their magnificent toilets, and the great number of distinguished guests from abroad. Among these latter one in particular seemed to attract great attention, on account of his noble personal attractions, the report of his great wealth, and, more than all, because of his being unmarried, handsome, and—thirty.