“Why, it is from Lettie!” he cried; and he tore open the envelope and threw his eyes hurriedly over its contents. It was very short--only a few words, in fact--but it was long enough to take all the happiness out of his heart, all the light out of his life, and to send him reeling back into his chair, as if he had received a mighty blow. It said: “Norine Bright’s husband is alive, and married again. Come here at once, if you would prevent a great wrong.” It was signed “Lettie Allan,” and at the bottom of the page was a line giving the street and number of her residence. He was dazed by the suddenness of the blow, and for a time was incapable of thought. He pulled himself together as speedily as possible. “This cannot be true!” he cried passionately. “I will not believe it.” But his heart was against him, and he felt that it was true. What proof had they ever had of that man’s death? The body had never been recovered, and there had been no real proof of anything beyond the fact that he had disappeared. Yes, it was true; he felt it to be so; and he laid his head on the desk in front of him and moaned in his anguish. It was true, and he had lost her again. “My God!” he cried bitterly, “is all my joy to turn to bitterness, all my happiness to ashes, thus?” All that night he sat with his head bent down, bemoaning his hard fate; but with the first streak of day he was up and resolved. “I will go,” he said, “and see for myself. And Jim must go, too. We will protect Norine, or avenge her. Oh, if I only had him here!” he cried--“only had him here, we two alone!” He caught the first train for New York, and was there as soon as steam could carry him. Taking a carriage at the depot, he was driven at once to the house of his friends. But here he met disappointment, bitter disappointment, to one in his frame of mind. Jim and Norine had left town that day, to be gone a week or ten days, the servant told him. “Did she know where?” No; but she had understood that it was at some distance. He scribbled a line to Jim on one of his cards, asking him to join him in Chicago at once, unless he received further word. Then he returned to the carriage that was waiting. He caught the express, and was soon whirling on his way. He had almost convinced himself by this time that there was a chance that Lettie might be mistaken; but it was hard work. At last the smoking engine drew up in the Chicago depot, panting after its rapid journey. Lester drove to a hotel that he might have a bath and something to eat; and, as soon after as possible, ordered a carriage to drive him to the address given in his letter from Lettie. CHAPTER XXVII. “OUR CONGRESSMAN-ELECT.”