He would follow them, and find out where her home was, and if she deserved the cruel things they said of her at Stonecliff. He felt sure that she had been slandered, poor, pretty Liane, leading her simple, blameless life of toil and poverty. He thought with pleasure of Mr. Clarke's interest in Liane, and promised himself to write to that gentleman all he could find out about her, little dreaming of the cruel consequences that would follow on the writing of the letter. "Poor little girl, it is a shame that evil hearts should malign and traduce her, living her humble life of toil, poverty, and innocence!" Jesse Devereaux said to himself pityingly, on returning from following Liane to her humble abode. He satisfied himself that her surroundings, though poor, were strictly respectable, and that she earned a meager living for herself and granny by patient, daily toil, and he had turned back to his own life of ease and luxury with a sore heart. Keen sympathy and pity drove resentment from his mind, effacing all but divine tenderness. He longed for an intensity that was almost pain to brighten her daily life, so weary, toilsome, and devoid of pleasure. "Had she but loved me, beautiful, hapless Liane, how different her lot in life would have been!" he thought, picturing her as the queen of his splendid home, her graceful form clothed in rich attire, her white throat and her tiny little hands glittering with costly gems, while she leaned on his breast, happy as a queen, his loving bride. He wondered what had become of Malcolm Dean, and why his ardent admiration of Liane had waned so soon. Almost simultaneously with the thought the doorbell rang, and Malcolm Dean's card was presented to him. "Show the gentleman in." They stood facing each other, the handsome blond artist and the dark-haired millionaire, and the latter recalled with a silent pang that Liane preferred men with fair hair and blue eyes. They shook hands cordially; then, as Dean sank into a chair, he noted that he had grown pale and thin. "You have been ill?" "Yes, for weeks, of a low fever that kept me in bed in Philadelphia, while my heart was far away. Can you guess where, Devereaux?" "Perhaps at Stonecliff?" "Then you have guessed at my passion for the beautiful prize winner." "It was patent to all observers that night," Devereaux answered, in a strangled voice, with a fierce thumping of the heart. Oh, God, how cruel it was to discuss her with his fortunate rival, who had only to ask and have. Dean noticed nothing unusual. He continued earnestly: