“And loves me still,” she cried, suddenly lifting her hand on which the magnificent oriental opal glowed in rainbow hues. Then she saw above it a plain gold band, and wrenching it off, flung it far from her in disgust. “How dare you?” she half sobbed, in sudden, futile passion. Harold Castello laughed lightly. “As for his loving you still, that is doubtful. He believes you false to him, and your cunning rival will perchance catch his heart on the rebound.” “Rival? I have no rival!” she panted, wildly. “Do you forget your cousin, beautiful Amber Laurens?” “My cousin Amber, my best friend--you are mad!” Harold Castello laughed again harshly, significantly. “Ah, Violet, what an innocent baby you are! Can you dream that an angry, jealous rival can be turned into a friend?” Something came into her throat, and seemed to choke her like a murderous hand. “Do you not remember,” he continued, “that Amber once loved Cecil Grant, and was angry because you won him? She only duped you when she pretended forgiveness. All the while she was working against you. It was Amber who helped her grandfather in his pet scheme of making you my bride. It was her revenge.” “Revenge?” echoed Violet’s pale, writhing lips. “Yes, she wanted you out of the way, that she might have another chance with Cecil. She has told him you were false, that you married me willingly, out of resentment at his delay--the delay that she planned so cunningly.” Her intent blue eyes invited further confidence, and without hesitation he told her all that he knew, eager to divert her wrath against himself to Amber. She did not doubt one word of his story, false and wicked as she knew him to be. But the past rushed over her in dizzy waves--Amber’s rivalry, Amber’s jealousy, Amber’s hate, with later looks and tones that had wounded, although scarcely understood. Now she realized all their dreadful import. “She was false to your trust and plotted against you, Violet. Can you wonder that I took advantage of the situation to win you for my own? I loved you madly, and love is my excuse. Forgive me dearest,” pleaded Harold Castello. “Leave me!” she answered, with a look of proud disdain, pointing to the door. “You forget you are my own now. My place is by your side.” With cold, scornful lips she replied: “I acknowledge no right over me given by that fraudulent marriage ceremony. I will never be your wife save in name.” “Nonsense, Violet. These lofty airs do not become you. You had better reconcile yourself at once to circumstances. I may as well tell you that you are virtually a prisoner, and will remain so until you give yourself to me with a wife’s obedience. As for your last lover, why grieve for him? He has not a roof to shelter his poverty-stricken head to-night, since Bonnycastle has been wrested from him by Amber’s arts. But doubtless she will find means to console him and to make herself his bride.”