“What news?—what embarrassment?” said Clark, who had no idea that Smith knew any thing of Zulima, or her connection with him. “Surely nothing has gone wrong in the business?” “No; but the young lady who says she knew you in New Orleans—that she has claims upon you!” Mr. Clark turned deathly white; this sudden mention of his wife unnerved him. “And is she in Philadelphia?—where is she?—how came she to find you out?” “I do not know; she sent me a note, and I went to her hotel.” “Was she alone—was she alone?” questioned Mr. Clark, starting up. “No, not quite alone,” replied Mr. Smith, with a meaning smile; “I saw only one person with her, a young and remarkably handsome man.” Mr. Clark sunk to his chair as if a bullet had passed through his heart. “Go on,” he said, after a moment; “go on, I am listening.” “This lady, sir, seemed determined to see you; she came on here—she is now in Baltimore.” “And her companion?” said Mr. Clark, with a ghastly smile. “No,” replied Smith; “I think she would not do that. She wishes to see you; I do not know what her object is,” “I will not see her; I will never see her again,” said Mr. Clark, and his face looked like marble. “If she needs any thing, supply her; she is, sir, the mother of my child; she is—but I will not talk of it; let her want for nothing—she is my wife.” “You will not see her then?” “No, it is enough.” Mr. Clark rang the bell—a man entered. “Have my carriage brought up at once; I shall set out for Washington. Mr. Smith, you know how to act. Save me from a repetition of this: you see how it tortures me. I loved that young creature—I thought, fool, madman, that I was—but she seemed to love me.” Mr. Clark went into another room; he could not endure that other eyes should witness his emotion. The coachman now came up; his proud master understood that every thing was ready, and without speaking a word, left his apartments. He stepped into his carriage; he was gone—gone without hearing the wild shriek that broke from the lips of that poor young wife, who had caught one glimpse of him from her window. She shook the sash—she strove to call after him; but her arms trembled—her voice was choked; with all her effort she made but little noise; those in the next room heard nothing of it, till she fell heavily on the floor. Mr. Smith found her there, lying like a corpse rigid and insensible. Then his heart smote him—then would he have given worlds that the falsehoods which brought all this misery had not been uttered. He had tried to think ill of his victim, to believe that between her and her husband there was neither love nor sympathy; how had the last hour undeceived him. Maddened by doubt and jealousy, his benefactor had not even attempted to conceal the anguish occasioned by what he deemed the perfidy of his wife; and she—was she not there, cold as marble, white as death, prostrate at his feet?