“Where did I see him, mamma? What does that matter? But I will tell you. As I was crossing Ninth street, I met a little funeral cortege on its way to the grave, with some poor soul doubtless happily released from the miseries of its earth-life. ‘Who was it?’ you ask! How do I know? I did not ask, I did not care; I only wished that your unhappy daughter lay in that black hearse with its funeral plumes nodding over her deep repose! But, Jacques? Yes, I saw him in one of the carriages, his evil face leering out at me! I stood dumb with surprise one moment, then I made a desperate gesture that I wished to speak to him. The carriage stopped for him to speak to me. He sprang out and came to my side. “‘Miss Lavarre, is it you, or your ghost? I thought you died months ago, of brain fever, in Chicago. Really, this is a strange renconter at this time,’ he smirked. “I could have killed the villain, I hated him so bitterly; but I schooled myself to calmness, and said, hastily: “‘No, I did not die, although I wish that I had! But, Jacques Brown, as you value the salvation of your soul hereafter, tell me the truth! Was I legally Harold Castello’s wife, or--did you play the parson as he swore to me in Chicago, and help to deceive me into a mock marriage that wrecked my life.’ “The valet gazed into my tortured face almost pityingly for a moment, then answered, frankly: “‘It’s no use for me to deny it to you, Miss Lavarre. Mr. Castello made me play the priest in your case, as he did in two more besides your own, only a few months before. He was a hardened _roue_, my master, and that’s the truth. But he paid me well for helping him in his wicked pleasures. Perhaps you know that he was married, though, fast and tight, only a week ago, to a beautiful young girl, Miss Violet Mead, who ran away from him the same night?’” “‘You swear that Violet Mead alone is the legal wife of Harold Castello?’ I asked him, so solemnly that he grew pale and raised his hand to heaven, exclaiming: “‘I swear before God that Miss Mead was his legal wife. All the others were deceived, like you, Miss Lavarre. But, excuse me; I am delaying the procession,’ and with a grim smile, he bowed to me, sprang back into the carriage, and it fell into line behind the funeral cortege that wound slowly along its solemn way, while I returned home with my cruel news for Violet.” She sobbed hysterically again, but Violet lay still and white, the heavy lids shut tight over the dark-blue eyes--not unconscious, but still as death in her terrible despair.