“I am here, my darling Violet, eagerly awaiting the summons to your presence!” exclaimed Harold Castello, quickly entering the room. She sprang from the sofa and stood up like an indignant queen to receive him. “Ah, how lovely you are, my fair bride, among these congenial surroundings!” he continued, his eyes gloating on her lovely face and form, set off so exquisitely by the white silk robe. “A truce to compliments, sir,” Violet answered, coldly, and he started with surprise. He had expected tears, upbraiding hysterics, and threats from the lovely girl he had tricked into becoming his wife. Yet how calmly she spoke! Was it possible she was going to take it coolly, after all--to resign herself to the inevitable? He devoutly hoped so, and with a smile he answered: “I can no more help telling you of your beauty, Violet, than I can help breathing. You are the most beautiful woman in the world, and I rejoice that you are my bride!” He saw a spasm of despair move the beautiful face and added, quickly: “Ah, my adored one, forgive me for the treachery that won you! Think how I love you, remember how rich I am and what a luxurious life you can have as my wife. Can I not teach you to forget my rival, and to love me?” He threw himself at her feet, and was proceeding with his passionate protestations, but, with a queenly gesture, she interrupted him: “Rise, Harold Castello. I did not send for you here to listen to your abhorred love. I summoned you to tell me how I was entrapped into this unholy marriage.” The calmness of despair breathed in the low, musical voice, the pallor of despair was on the exquisite face. She was no longer the simple girl, Violet, moved to tears or laughter at a breath; she was a woman who had lost her love, whose life lay in ruins, whose soul quailed in secret at its terrible betrayal. She realized the despotic power of the man who had cheated her into this union, she knew as well as if he had already told her that this gilded cage was her prison, that she was surrounded by his minions, that nothing remained to her but submission or--death. That would be her only escape from her loathed husband. So, with a calmness that she could not understand, she faced him: “It’s too late for recriminations, too late for entreaties. I know your flinty heart too well. I realize my fate too thoroughly. Only tell me why Cecil did not come; tell me who detained him; tell me who plotted this terrible thing?” “Suppose I answer that it was all my own doing, Violet?” “All your own? Then, how did you keep Cecil away? It seemed to me that nothing but death could have kept my beloved from my side in our bridal hour! Did you--did you”--her face blanching to yet more deadly pallor--“meet him and murder him on his way to me?” “Good heavens, no! Cecil Grant is alive and well.”