“No, sir,” said Durward. “The nature of our trouble is known only to ourselves and one other individual, and I shall never divulge the secret.” “Is that other individual my mother?” “No, sir.” “Is it Cad?” “No, sir.” “Had they any agency in the matter?” “None, whatever, that I know of.” “Then I’m on the wrong track, and may as well go home,” said John Jr., starting for the door, where he stopped, while he added, “If, Bellmont, I ever do hear of your having misled me in this matter——” He did not finish the sentence in words, but playfully producing a revolver, he departed. The next moment he was dashing across the lawn, the mud flying in every direction, and himself thinking how useless it was to try to unravel a love quarrel. In the meantime, ’Lena waited impatiently for an answer to the letter which she had sent to Mr. Graham, but day after day glided by, and still no tidings came. At last, as if everything had conspired against her, she heard that he was lying dangerously ill of a fever at Havana, whither he had gone in quest of an individual whose presence was necessary in the settlement of the estate. The letter which brought this intelligence to Mrs. Graham, also contained a request that she would come to him immediately, and within a few days after its receipt, she started for Cuba, together with Durward, who went without again seeing ’Lena. They found him better than they expected. The danger was past, but he was still too weak to move himself, and the physician said it would be many weeks ere he was able to travel. This rather pleased Mrs. Graham than otherwise. She was fond of change, and had often desired to visit Havana, so now that she was there, she made the best of it, and for once in her life enacted the part of a faithful, affectionate wife. Often, during intervals of mental aberration, Mr. Graham spoke of “Helena,” imploring her forgiveness for his leaving her so long, and promising to return. Sometimes he spoke of her as being dead, and in piteous accents he would ask of Durward to bring him back his “beautiful ’Lena,” who was sleeping far away among the New England mountains. One day when the servant, as usual, came in with their letters, he brought one directed to Mr. Graham, which had been forwarded from Charleston, and which bore the post-marks of several places, it having been sent hither and thither, ere it reached its place of destination. It was mailed at Frankfort, Kentucky, and in the superscription Durward readily recognized the handwriting of ’Lena. “Worse and worse,” thought he, now fully assured of her worthlessness.