Isabel received them, looking unusually handsome in her bright, crimson morning robe, with all the rich color faded out of her dark face, and her lips quivering piteously as she reported that dear mamma was not any better, and that she--Isabel--was forced to stay out of the sick room because she could not listen to poor mamma’s wild and improbable fancies. Grace understood the yearning look in her brother’s eyes, and proffered a timid request for a word with Iris; but Isabel declared that Iris could not be induced to leave her mother’s bedside for a moment, and the visitors could not persist any further. During their brief stay she found an opportunity of speaking alone with Chester. “This is a cruel trial, dear Chester; I long to hear some words of sympathy from your lips; I have sore need of your love now; it is all so lonesome and terrible with papa always in the sick room, and the house silent as the grave.” She had clasped her small hands on his shoulder, and bent her head upon them, so that her face was very near his own; but although Chester smoothed her dark, glossy hair with a gentle touch, he did not give her the caress she expected, for between them there arose a vision he could not banish--the vision of a sweet mignonne face, a pair of limpid, violet eyes, and a pretty, bright-tressed head that he had lately seen bowed in bitter sorrow. The struggle going on within his heart was almost maddening. Could he, with his chivalrous sense of honor, ask this girl, who had openly confessed her love for him, to release him from his promise, that he might devote his life to the clearing of Iris Tresilian’s name, and afterward to the task of winning Iris’ forgiveness for having doubted her? His conscience told him his first duty was to the woman who was his promised wife, and for the first time in his life he found it hard to obey this silent, inward voice. While he was taking his leave of Isabel a loud ring at the doorbell startled them, and his heart throbbed with an unaccountable feeling of foreboding. Grace was already in the vestibule, and opened the door before a servant had time to answer the summons. Two men stood on the doorstep, one of whom exclaimed, without preface: “We are looking for a girl whose name, we believe, is Aris, or Iris Tresilian, but who calls herself Maggie Gordon.” While speaking the man had coolly unbuttoned his coat and exhibited a shining shield, at sight of which Grace uttered a cry of terror, and clung to her brother’s arm, trembling in every limb. “Great heavens! There is some terrible mistake,” ejaculated Chester, asking, as the men came across the threshold: “With what do you charge Iris Tresilian?” to which the man replied in his usual cool, matter-of-fact tone: “With the theft of two hundred dollars. Madam Marie Ward, of Forty-first Street, is her accuser.” CHAPTER LIX. “GOOD-BY.”