"Oh, you did not realize, surely," the girl goes on, with pained eyes, and clasped hands, "what a terrible thing you were doing when you went away silently with that note in your possession, that is worth the wealth of the world to poor Maud Langton. You were blinded by your wounded pride and insulted love, or you could not have stooped to take such an ignoble revenge for your wrongs." He stares at her still, like one dreaming. Is the girl a witch? How does she know? "Oh, speak!" she breaks out, impatiently. "Have you nothing to say?" "You have taken my breath away," he answers. "Why do you bring this absurd charge against me? Who says," with a sneer, "I have that wonderful note?" "I am your accuser," she answers, fixing upon him the full fire of her magnetic dark eyes. "I saw you, I was not very far away when Maud left you that day, I saw you pick up a note from the ground and read it, then you slipped it into your vest pocket. I am quite sure it was Maud's note. I do not believe you will deny it." "Since you know so much, I will not," he answers, with blended amaze and defiance. "What then?" The beautiful dusky face lights up with the lovely earnestness of hope. "You will give it to me," she says. "I have followed you across the wide ocean to ask you for it." "Why should I give it to you?" he asks, with distinct coldness. She gives him a glance of blended pride and patience. "Not for any grace you owe me, certainly," she says, with gentle calmness, "but for Maud's sake." "Do I owe her any kindness?" he asks, sardonically. "You owe her forgiveness, which is divine," she answers, anxiously. "I prefer _revenge_. Do you remember these lines? "'The sweetest thing upon this earth is love, And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.'" She rises and faces him, something of proud scorn in her free and girlish bearing. "Yes, I remember them, but such sentiments are unworthy of you, Mr. Charteris. What! are you not the brave, noble gentleman I deemed you? Am I to blush for my--husband?" A subtle thrill, he cannot tell whether it be of pain or pleasure, it is so intense, shoots through him as the low word falls from her lips. A passionate shame, evoked by her proud scorn, tingles through all his frame, yet he says, mockingly: "So you own the tie that binds us? I thought not, as when I came just now and inquired for Mrs. Charteris I was told there was no such person staying in the hotel. I had to ask for Miss Langton." "I am traveling as Miss Langton," she explains, simply, yet coloring crimson under his keen, cool gaze. "May I ask why?" with an unconscious touch of pique in his tone. "No, you may not ask," with a great deal of dignity in her tone; then, suddenly: "Yet I think you should know I am too sensitive to claim the name you will not accord me of your own free will." She opens the scrawl he has sent her awhile ago, holding it open before his eyes. There is neither name nor address upon it.