She groaned in spirit, but she decided that she dare not defy Carey Doyle until she had a husband to defend her against his charges. “How much do you require?” “Just one thousand dollars!” “You ask too much.” “I cannot do with less.” “You must!” “I will not!” They glared at each other, but she saw that she could not shake his resolution. Swallowing her rage and chagrin, she expostulated: “It is but a month ago I gave you five hundred dollars--and--and--since that night you helped me you have had four thousand dollars.” “For which I am most profoundly grateful,” airily, “and a poor price for such a secret, too, so you shouldn’t mind a last payment such as I ask for now.” “A last payment! You will be calling for more in a week.” “I swear to you I will not. I am about to leave the city for Alaska.” “Do you mean it?” “As surely as the sun shines in the heavens this bright September day! Perhaps you have read, Miss Ellyson, of the wonderful gold finds in Alaska that have stirred the whole country into a fever. Well, I have joined a party to go out to the gold diggings, and I mean to make my fortune or lose my life, whichever fate wills. It will cost me a thousand dollars to get to the Klondike, so you see I shall have no means of returning from those frozen wilds till I make my pile. Surely you would not begrudge a thousand dollars to be rid of me forever?” No, she would not. It would be a small price to pay to rid herself of this terrible incubus. She had read in all the newspapers of the perils of the awful journey to Alaska, and she thought in her heart with joy that surely he could never return from beyond the far Yukon. Cora had shuddered at the tales of Alaska, but now she brightened at the thought that Carey Doyle was not, indeed, likely to return from so grim a journey. “Since you need it so much and promise never to ask for more, I will try to get the sum for you within the week,” she said, adding: “I will send a letter to this address telling you when and how I will pay it to you. Is that satisfactory?” “Perfectly, for I know you will keep your word,” he replied, smiling to himself at the victory he had won over the haughty girl who scorned him even while she cringed beneath his power. She inclined her head haughtily, drew down the thick veil again, and swept out of the house down to her waiting limousine, and so back to Mrs. Dalrymple’s, where, since her return from the hospital, she again made her home, the Van Dorns being indefinitely absent in Paris. CHAPTER XXXIV. “A BREAKING HEART,” SHE SAID. Mrs. Dalrymple had never felt like a well woman since the day she kissed her daughter’s dead face and turned away from the old family vault, feeling that her last hope in life was gone. Alone and lonely, though she had the whole world at command by the power of wealth, Verna Dalrymple, still a young woman, and a magnificently beautiful one, was as wretched as the veriest beggar starving in the streets.