Perhaps, had James Smith been given time for after reflection, he might have become shocked with the part that he was called upon to perform; but the letter which opened this wicked scheme to him had been delayed and carried in a wrong direction by the mail, and nearly two weeks had been thus lost after the time when it should have reached him. Smith had scarcely turned from his desk with the evil letter in his bosom, when another man entered the warehouse and placed a little rose-tinted note in his hand. A vague idea that this note had some connection with the slovenly epistle that he had just read took possession of him, before he broke the drop of pale-green wax that sealed it. The conjecture proved real—Zulima had written that note. She was in Philadelphia, and hoped through her husband’s _protege_ to hear some news of him. Smith had no time for reflection; he was called upon to act at once. He went to the hotel where Zulima was staying. Smith entered the hotel hurriedly, as one who has a painful task to accomplish and wishes it over. He was not villain enough to act with deliberation, or with that crafty coldness which fitted Ross so singularly for a domestic conspirator. When he found himself in the presence of this helpless young mother; when he gazed upon her beauty, dimmed—it is true, by all that she had suffered, but obtaining thereby a soft melancholy that was far more touching than the glow of youth in its full joy can ever be,—his heart smote him for the wrong it had meditated against her. He sat down by her side, trembling and almost as anxious as she was. “My husband,” said Zulima, turning her eloquent eyes upon his downcast face; “you know him, sir—he is your friend; tell me where he is to be found.” “Your husband, madam! of whom do you speak?” “Of Mr. Clark—Daniel Clark—your benefactor and my husband,” said Zulima. “Daniel Clark, lady?” “I wish to see him—I _must_ see him—tell me where he is to be found.” Zulima was breathless with impatience; her large eyes brightened, her cheeks took a faint color. She was determined that nothing should keep her from the presence of her husband. “And you—you are the young lady that went South with him the last time he was here?” said Smith, bending his eyes to the floor and faltering in his speech. “Yes, I went with him—I was his wife!” Smith shook his head; a faint smile crept over his mouth; he seemed to doubt her assertion. Zulima saw it, and her face kindled with indignant passion. “I _am_ his wife!” she said. “The marriage—was it not secret? was it not almost without witness?” “Secret? yes; but not entirely without witnesses. I can prove my marriage.” “You can prove that some ceremony took place; but can you prove that it was a real marriage ceremony? Indeed, have you never had reason to doubt that it was such?” “Never, sir,” replied Zulima, turning pale, “never!”