The man who had called himself Charles Broughton took forcible possession of the girl’s hands now, and attempted to seat her in the chair near which she stood; but at this moment the sound of low knocking on the door interrupted him. Something in the expression of her face half frightened Charles Broughton, and grasping her arm almost rudely, he whispered: “Do not contradict anything I say, no matter how far I may depart from the truth. Do not dare to carry out the defiance your looks express, if you would not have me brand you as the daughter of a felon--and not only the child of a forger, but of an escaped convict. Say one word to betray me, and the proud aristocrat who has declared his love for you--the haughty Chester St. John, who is so proud of his spotless reputation and ancient lineage--shall know you as the offspring of Carleton Tresilian. Ah, I think that was some one knocking on the door--come in!” And Charles Broughton threw himself negligently into a chair at some distance from Iris, who was sitting now with her head thrown back among the cushions of an easy-chair, her hands locked tightly together in her lap, and those terrible words to which she had listened a moment before repeating themselves over and over again in her tortured brain--“the child of an escaped convict.” CHAPTER L. SUNDERED HEARTS. On the afternoon of the day following Chester St. John’s visit to Mr. Hilton, the former was seated alone in the library of his father’s mansion on Fifth Avenue, pondering sadly over the change that seemed to have come over all his life since the hour when the hope he had cherished of winning Iris for his wife had been shattered by her own cruel rejection of him. He felt assured that there was some mystery connected with Iris’ flight from the home of the man he still believed to be her father, but that this mystery was connected with any unworthy love never for one moment occurred to the loyal heart of Chester St. John, Oscar Hilton’s hints to that effect notwithstanding. While he was thinking thus, a servant brought him a card bearing the name of Oscar Hilton, and informed him that that gentleman was waiting to see him downstairs. “Thank Heaven, he brings me some news of Iris!” was Chester’s first thought. But his first glimpse into Hilton’s face showed him that whatever the tidings the latter brought there was in them no cause for rejoicing. Mr. Hilton was very pale, and his face wore an expression of deep sorrow. “I am in great trouble,” he said, in answer to Chester’s anxious inquiry, and stood for a moment with his hands clasped on the low, marble mantel, and his face hidden in them. St. John was terribly alarmed, but could not give voice to his fears, and Hilton himself was obliged to resume the conversation. “I came to you, St. John, because I know you loved my unfortunate child, and----” “My God, what is it? What has happened? Do not keep me in suspense; tell me the worst,” cried the young man hoarsely.