“Yes; every little garment is in a trunk at Verelands, together with a water-colored photograph I had taken of her a few days after I took charge of her. I kept the things in the hope that they might some day assist in establishing her identity.” “I hope you will not believe me idly curious if I ask you to show me those garments and that picture at some future day,” Lord Stuart said, in a strange voice. Norman promised to gratify his curiosity without thinking that there was anything significant in it, so fully was his mind absorbed in his trouble; and presently Lord Stuart took leave, promising to return that night and watch with Norman through the crisis that the physician had predicted as imminent. Then he returned to the hotel to his sister, having decided that it would be better to confide to her some of the facts he had learned, smoothing them over as best he could, lest her grief over poor Thea’s trouble should prostrate her upon a sick-bed, and so hinder him from assisting Norman in his troubles. Lady Edith was cruelly shocked, but she bore it more bravely than he had expected. “Dear brother, there is something in your face that tells me you are hopeful,” she cried, eagerly, through her starting tears. “Yes, I am hopeful,” he answered, firmly. “All is not so dark as it appears, Edith, and if Norman’s mother only gets well, and we can find our precious runaways, I shall do all I can to help our noble friend unravel the web of fate that wicked Camille has woven around him. There are some precious threads in my grasp, but I must not tell you more just now. Only be brave and patient, my sister, and keep in your mind the old adage: ‘The darkest hour is just before the dawn.’” CHAPTER LXVII. Lord Stuart went back to the cabin that night to share Norman’s vigil, and when he stood by the bedside of Mrs. de Vere, and saw what an awful change had come over the once handsome, noble-looking woman, his heart sunk with dread. The gray shadow of death seemed already settling upon her terribly wasted features. He did not believe that she could possibly live through the impending crisis. “She will die to-night, and another crime will lie at the door of that beautiful fiend,” he thought, with burning indignation against heartless Camille. They had been sitting quietly for more than an hour, watching the invalid, who lay in a stupor almost as deep as death, when Lord Stuart’s ear caught the sound of a light tapping at the kitchen door. He rose softly and went out, anxious that Norman should not be disturbed, and found a messenger boy with a telegram for Norman de Vere. Lord Stuart took the telegram and turned into the quiet kitchen. A thought had come to him of the fraudulent one that had summoned Norman de Vere to New York in order that his relentless foe might desolate his home.