As Marion gazed about she soon became sensible of a delicate, all-pervading odor—it greeted her nostrils at every turn and was slowly exerting its influences upon her senses as a powerful soporific. “Where am I? What is this place?” she demanded of her companion. “How dare you bring me here! Have you no regard for the laws of your country?” There was a soft, low chuckle from the man at her side. Marion held her breath for a second as she heard it. “Let me out of this place at once!” she said, furiously, “I demand that you set me at liberty, sir! What have I done to you that you should treat me so shamefully?” “Shall I tell you?” hissed a low voice that she now recognized fully. “Shall I tell you what you have done, Signorita Ila de Parloa?” “What, you, Carlotta?” cried Marion, aghast. “You, a woman, have stooped to this hideous crime? Yes, tell me at once, if you can, what I have done to deserve it!” She was facing her companion with absolute fearlessness now, and, as the woman threw off her slouch hat together with a wig and false beard, the two stood glaring fiercely at each other in the strange apartment. “I’ll tell you what you did, you little country innocent!” cried Carlotta, furiously. “You robbed me of my laurels as prima donna of our company, then you robbed me of the man whose very shadow I adored, and yes, you goaded me on to such jealous rage that I killed my lover! I killed Clayton Graham because you came between us, Marion Marlowe!” “Oh, no, never!” cried Marion, who was aghast with horror. “You killed him in a fit of ungovernable temper. It was not because of me—I am innocent, Carlotta.” “I do not choose to think so,” said the woman, scornfully. “I vowed to have revenge and I have won it—to my sorrow!” The groan of agony that followed these words almost melted Marion’s heart to pity. The woman was vile, she was all that was loathsome and bad, yet God alone knew the depths of her suffering. In another instant she was shaking with sobs; yet her great dark eyes only burned with the agony of hate: there was no tears of relief for the wretched Carlotta. “Why have you brought me here?” demanded Marion again, as soon as she could control herself sufficiently to ask the question. The answer sent a thrill of horror through every fiber of her body, it was so utterly diabolical, so cold, cruel and fiendish. Carlotta raised her head and fixed her burning eyes upon Marion’s face. “This is an opium den, the best and the worst in the city,” she said, hoarsely. “Men and women come here to live and die. It is better, they think, than dying in prison. I have come here to smoke the drug and dream. I want to sleep and dream—to dream and sleep. Perhaps I shall find rest for the agony of my soul; perhaps I shall only find torture to the very end; but in either case I want you here to keep me company.” CHAPTER XIII. THE DIABOLICAL BARGAIN.