CHAPTER I. A SINGULAR WILL. CHAPTER II. CAPTAIN DESFRAYNE’S PERPLEXITY. CHAPTER III. LOIS TURQUAND’S EMBARRASSMENT. CHAPTER IV. LOIS TURQUAND’S ALTERED FORTUNE. CHAPTER V. A TRIPLE BONDAGE. CHAPTER VI. PAUL’S GALLING SHACKLES. CHAPTER VII. AN UNINTENTIONAL CUT. CHAPTER VIII. THE NEW VALET. CHAPTER IX. PLAYING AT CROSS-PURPOSES. CHAPTER X. BUILDING ON SAND. CHAPTER XI. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S WIFE. CHAPTER XII. THE PRIMA DONNA’S HATE. CHAPTER XIII. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S CONFESSION. CHAPTER XIV. FRANK AMBERLEY’S EXULTATION. CHAPTER XV. THE MISTRESS OF FLORE HALL. CHAPTER XVI. GILARDONI’S LOVE-GIFT. CHAPTER XVII. IN THE THUNDER-STORM. CHAPTER XVIII. PAUL DESFRAYNE’S REFLECTIONS. CHAPTER XIX. BLANCHE DORMER’S SURPRISE. CHAPTER XX. THE BREAK OF DAWN. CHAPTER XXI. LEONARDO GILARDONI’S STORY. CHAPTER XXII. A VISION OF FREEDOM. CHAPTER XXIII. THE EXPRESS TO LONDON. CHAPTER XXIV. FRANK AMBERLEY’S ADVICE. CHAPTER XXV. THE FIGURE ROBED IN BLACK. CHAPTER XXVI. LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S DIAMOND RING. CHAPTER XXVII. FRANK AMBERLEY’S MISSION. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE INLAID CABINET. CHAPTER XXIX. DEFIANCE, NOT DEFENSE. CHAPTER XXX. FREE AT LAST. CHAPTER XXXI. LUCIA’S TEARS. CHAPTER XXXII. LUCIA GUISCARDINI’S MADNESS. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE SOUND OF WEDDING-BELLS. CHAPTER I. A SINGULAR WILL. Always more or less subdued in tone and tranquil of aspect, the eminently genteel Square of Porchester is, perhaps, seen in its most benign mood in the gently falling shadows of a summer’s twilight. The tall houses begin slowly, very slowly, to twinkle with a glowworm irradiance from the drawing-rooms to the apartments on the upper floors as the darkness increases. From the open windows float the glittering strains of Gounod, Offenbach, Hervé, fluttering down over the flower-wreathed balconies into the silent street beneath, each succession of chords tumbling like so many fairies intoxicated with the spirit of music. At not infrequent intervals, sparkling broughams whirl past, carrying ladies arrayed obviously for dinner-party, soirée, or opera, in gay toilets, only half-concealed by the loose folds of soft wraps. At the moment the curtain rises, two persons of the drama occupy this stage. One is an individual of a peculiarly unattractive exterior--a man of probably some two or three and thirty years of age--a foreigner, by his appearance. It would have been difficult to tell whether recent illness or absolute want had made his not unhandsome face so white and pinched, and caused the shabby garments to hang about his tall, well-knit figure. Seemingly, he was one of those most forlorn of creatures--a domestic servant out of employ.