“You have had no supper, Mrs. Castello, so your husband ordered something sent to you,” she said, courteously, as she set the silver tray down on a little stand. Violet would have delighted in the dainty edibles and exquisite fruits at any other time, for she had the appetite of a healthy young girl, but now she shuddered with loathing and exclaimed, imperiously: “You may take the food away at once, Suzanne, for I shall not taste one morsel. I have no doubt it is drugged, and I need all my senses about me to plan my escape.” “Escape, miladi?” with pretended surprise. “Yes. You know perfectly well that I am a prisoner here against my will, Suzanne, and that I shall escape at the first opportunity.” “Oh, madame, that will ever be impossible! You are locked into this house, watched and guarded so that you can never get free!” returned Suzanne, with a knowing look that struck despair to the heart of her hapless young mistress. She cried out, desperately: “Oh, Suzanne, you are a sister woman, and ought to have a kind heart in your body! Have pity upon me! I will tell you all my sad story, and surely, surely you will help me to escape!” The tears in the beautiful blue eyes might have moved a heart of stone, but Suzanne was pitiless, although she listened with all the curiosity that is imputed to the female sex. Poor Violet poured all her tortured heart into the appeal to the French maid. She told her, through raining tears, of her hapless love affair and the opposition it had encountered, of her cousin’s treachery that had brought her into this terrible pass, and she besought her aid in escaping from Harold Castello. When she had finished, the woman did not betray any surprise. She simply bowed and began to argue the case, although in the most respectful manner. She told Violet that since she had become Mr. Castello’s wife it would be wiser to accept the situation. “Even if you escaped you would have nowhere to go, for your grandfather would only return you to your husband if you went there,” she said. “I should not return to that cruel old man and my treacherous cousin, Amber. I should seek out my dead father’s people and throw myself on their protection. They would help me to break this unholy marriage,” cried Violet, desperately. “That you might marry Monsieur Grant, the poor man; is it not so?” queried the Frenchwoman, with a contemptuous emphasis on the epithet “poor man.” “Yes, that I might marry my darling Cecil,” Violet answered, proudly. The woman gave a derisive laugh and said, curtly: