“I have a telegram for you, Maggie; I signed the receipt myself to save you the trouble of coming downstairs,” said Emma, in her gentle, sympathetic voice; and Maggie could only bow her head in acknowledgment of Emma’s kindness, as she took the ominous yellow envelope from the latter’s hand, and seated herself, weak and trembling, on the lower step of the stairs leading to the workroom, to make herself mistress of its contents. The girl, Emma, with the true instincts of a gentlewoman, passed up the stairs without waiting to see how the contents of the yellow envelope would affect her fellow worker, although her young heart ached for the girl whose sufferings she could read so plainly in the sorrowful eyes and pallid features for a moment uplifted to her gaze. Maggie was therefore all alone when she opened the telegram, and read the following words: “TO IRIS--OR MAGGIE GORDON: If you ever cared for Chester St. John come to him now. He is dying, and calls for you with every breath. He cannot live one hour from the time you receive this telegram; so if you slight this message you will render his last moments unhappy. Should you care to see him alive, call immediately at No. 685B Lexington Avenue.” Iris read the message over and over again. All the memory of the bitter words that had passed Chester St. John’s lips when he bade her farewell faded from her brain. She scarcely looked at the name signed to the telegram--Gerald Dare. She thought of nothing but that Chester St. John was dying, and that she loved him with all her heart and soul. And with the telegram crushed in her hand, and only the thought of her approaching meeting with Chester St. John keeping her from giving way to that sickening sensation of weakness, she turned her steps in the direction of the house in Lexington Avenue, without a thought that any treachery had lured her thither, although St. John’s residence was not in that locality. It never occurred to her to wonder how this Gerald Dare knew of her change of name, and the place where she worked. CHAPTER XLVIII. A CRUEL STRATAGEM. Several of the friends whom Iris Hilton had visited in the days of her prosperity resided on Lexington Avenue, and she knew that the number mentioned in the dispatch was in the neighborhood of Twenty-third Street, so that she had not more than a dozen blocks to walk from Madam Ward’s establishment to her destination. At last the goal was reached, and she stood still for one moment before she could ascend the high stone stoop, pressing her hands to her heart, and praying for strength to go through the ordeal before her. “He must not see me looking so ill--as I feel I am looking now. Oh, my darling! My brave, strong, noble love, what can have stricken you down so soon?” she murmured; and summoning all her strength to overcome the faintness that was creeping slowly upon her, she ascended the steps and rang a soft peal at the doorbell.