“No; for I have been to them in Philadelphia. They knew nothing about her, and I asked her uncle to insert personals in the newspapers. He did so, but no answer came, and he shares my belief that poor Violet has surely been overtaken by some terrible fate.” The belief certainly seemed plausible, but Amber dared not credit it. She trembled with horror at the threatening overthrow of all her hopes. To lose her love Cecil now, when he was almost her very own--the thought was madness! In a husky voice she cried: “I do not believe that Violet is dead. She is probably in hiding, fearful to return lest she should be delivered up to Harold Castello. But how strange that he permitted her to escape! Have you seen him? Did he tell you how it happened?” “I have seen him, and he told me his theory. The French maid he employed to guard Violet disappeared at the same time, and he believed that she proved false to her trust and helped her mistress to escape.” In a feeble voice, broken by remorseful sighs, he told Amber of the fire in Violet’s room that night, and that Castello had been forced to leave the house to have his burns dressed by a physician. During his absence she had escaped. “So it was Harold Castello who sent for you a week ago?” Amber cried, eagerly. “Yes.” “But, grandpapa, you said it was a sick friend.” “Harold Castello was sick from his burns.” Amber’s eyes began to dilate with an awful suspicion. She panted, wildly: “But you told me, did you not, that your sick friend was dead?” “Yes, I told you so!” “Was it true?” “Yes, yes,” Judge Camden answered, impatiently. “Then--then--Harold Castello--Violet’s husband! Do you mean to tell me, grandpapa, that he is dead?” burst out Amber, in wildest dismay. “Harold Castello is dead and buried,” was the startling reply. CHAPTER XLIII. SHE FANCIED THAT ONLY THE CONDEMNED IN TORMENT COULD FEEL SUCH PANGS. Again Amber was speechless from surprise. She could scarcely credit her own hearing, and stared dumbly at her grandfather for confirmation of his startling statement. He watched her in silence a few moments, then said, peevishly: “I did not intend to tell you all this until I got better, for I’m tired and sick from the awful strain on my nerves, and it fatigues me to talk much; but you have somehow wormed it out of me; so I will try and finish the story.” “Please do, for I am very curious,” answered Amber, disregarding his confession of weakness, and he continued: “Harold Castello, in the excitement of extinguishing the fire in the room, burned his hands and scorched his hair, but did not suppose he had seriously injured himself until he reached the physician’s office, where he became alarmingly ill. To be brief, he had, in his combat with the fiery element, swallowed fire, as the common saying is. His life was doomed.” “Heavens!” muttered Amber, with glaring eyes of horror.