“You have taken away my husband--my love--my good name!” she panted. “How dare you offer me money? I will not take it if I starve!” Mr. Black coolly picked up the note and restored it to his pocket. He was about to speak further when the door was burst violently open, and the landlady, flushed with excitement, came rushing in like an incarnate tornado. The rejection of the money by Lally had incensed her beyond all that had gone before. “I keep a respectable house, I hope, Miss,” snapped the woman. “I’ve heard all that’s been said here, as is right I should, being a lone widow and a dependent upon the reputation of my lodging-’us for a living. And being as you an’t married, though a pretending of it, I can’t shelter you no longer. Out you go, without a minute’s warning. There’s your hat, and there’s your sack. Take ’em, and start!” Lally obeyed the words literally. She caught up her out-door apparel, and with one wild, wailing cry, dashed out of the room, down the stairs and into the street. Mr. Black and the landlady regarded each other in a mutual alarm. “You have driven her to her death, Madam,” said Craven Black excitedly. “She has gone out to destroy herself, and you have murdered her.” He put on his hat and left the house. The girl’s flying figure had already disappeared, and the villain’s conscience cried out to him that she would perish, and that it was _he_, and none other, who had killed her. CHAPTER XIII. HOW NEVA RECEIVED THE FORGERIES. While Craven Black was successfully pursuing his machinations to destroy the happiness of two young lives, Lady Wynde had been active in carrying out her part in the infamous plot against Neva. The little packet of forged letters which had cost Lady Wynde’s fellow-conspirator a night of toil, and which had been sent to Hawkhurst by a special messenger, had been safely delivered into the hands of Mrs. Artress, who had been waiting at the gate lodge to receive it. It had so happened that not even the lodge keeper had witnessed the reception of the packet, and she had dismissed the messenger, and carefully concealed the packet upon her person, and returned to the house and to the presence of her mistress. Lady Wynde had not yet risen. She lay in the midst of her white bed, with her black hair tossing upon her ruffled pillow, one white and rounded arm lying upon the scarlet satin coverlet, and with a profusion of dainty frills and laces upon her person. A small inlaid table stood at her bedside, supporting a round silver tray, upon which gleamed a silver _tete-a-tete_ set of the daintiest proportions, and at the moment of her companion’s entrance her ladyship was sipping her usual morning cup of black coffee, which was expected to tone and strengthen her nerves for the day. She dropped her tiny gold spoon, and looked up eagerly and expectantly, and Artress, closing the door, drew forth the packet with an air of triumph.