"I hear that he was banished to Tasmania twelve years ago for a daring act of forgery; that he has come back with a ticket of leave two years since, and, seizing the first opportunity, has presented himself with freedom, and escaped from the espionage of the law. "That the detectives sent on the track of Roland Mortlake have met the detectives on the track of the fugitive ticket of leave man, and that O'Grady has confessed that they are identical. "O'Grady, being a companion-convict, and having shared in that enterprise for freedom, is well qualified to put the detectives upon his track, and does so. Thus our friend Mortlake vanishes from the scene; one month ago the prosperous heir of Castle Brand--to-day, the convict waiting sentence for the murder of the true heir of Castle Brand. "But, mademoiselle, the little tale is not complete without the _eclaircissement_; permit me to draw aside the curtain from my secret. "You shall give the word that draws the bolt, and drop out Mortlake into a murderer's grave; or you shall raise the warning hand that stays the doom upon the felon's platform, and waves him back to Tasmania for life in the chain-gang. "How you have that power is my secret, mademoiselle; shall I tell it you for one thousand pounds?" Grave, keen, penetrating, the Chevalier de Calembours bent forward and waited breathlessly the answer to this momentous question. The great eyes of Margaret Walsingham still met his in a fascinated gaze; her electric face kept its spell-bound attention. With lips apart and bosom heaving she waited for the end of the story. "Mademoiselle, shall I tell it you for one thousand pounds, or shall I go back to America, and bury the secret in oblivion?" asked the chevalier. "Tell me all," breathed Margaret, faintly. "Mademoiselle will remember my modest request?" "Yes, yes, monsieur, I will pay you what you ask!" she cried, hysterically; "go on to the end." "_Milles mercis!_" cried he, cheerfully, "mademoiselle is magnificent! Mademoiselle does not wish M. Mortlake to escape with his life?" "No," shuddered Margaret, "he must not live." "So perfidious!" aspirated the chevalier; "he stole St. Udo's history, he stole his identity, and then he stole his life. Fiendish Mortlake!" "He shall die, monsieur, be content," groaned Margaret. "Even if he had not succeeded in killing St. Udo, his intention would make him worthy of death," remarked the chevalier. "Ah, yes, worthy of twenty deaths!" cried Margaret, wringing her hands. "Mademoiselle loves the brave man who was murdered?" insinuated the chevalier, in softest accents. She grew white as death, and the great tears rushed from her eyes. "What does it matter now?" she moaned. "I do love him--ah, I do love him!" Then did the little man rise and expand with warm enthusiasm--then did his handsome face glow with rapture and with pride.