When, next morning, Senator Hamblin entered the breakfast-room, his face showed plainly the struggle through which he had passed. Inquiring for his daughter, he was told by Mrs. Hamblin that she was sleeping soundly. "Poor child, let her sleep. Would that she could enjoy an unbroken slumber until the return of her husband." At nine o'clock he went to the bank and found Sargent alone. "Have you mailed the forged letter to Alden?" he asked. "Yes, sir; it left this morning." "I am sorry, for I am convinced I have done a great wrong. I have been a fool--yes, worse than that, a villain--but I will recall him at once." Sargent, conscious that his companion's mind had undergone a radical change, did not at first reply, but no other remark being made by the president, he finally said: "Will it not be dangerous for him to return here? he might make it warm for us." "I care not; although there would be no danger. There are reasons why I desire his immediate return. To-day is Friday--I will write to him at once, and he can be here by the middle of next week." As he entered his private office and closed the door behind him, Sargent laughingly said to himself: "Just as I expected--but we will nip this little game; for he has men, not a girl, to deal with now. We hold the trump cards and he will find himself euchred." One hour later Senator Hamblin passed into the banking room, and handed Sargent a letter addressed, GEORGE HOWARD, CHICAGO, ILL., saying: "Mail this at once. And do not be disappointed in this matter; if we can get Alden back again, I will make you a handsome present--I will remain here while you are absent." Sargent, leaving the bank, slipped the letter into his pocket. "Lucky he sent me! I will take care of this for the present." CHAPTER XXV. THE CRUEL LETTER. George Alden, with satchel in hand, stepped from a train just arrived from the East, at Chicago; his pale face, blood-shot eyes, and whole manner betokening a nervous condition. A stranger in a strange city, scarcely knowing which way to go, he felt almost like a guilty wretch fleeing from justice. The events of the past three days passing before his mind like a row of spectres, his haggard face told plainly of his anguish. The sun was sinking beneath the western plains as the fugitive walked the streets of the strange city, not knowing whither to turn. He was faint from lack of nourishment, for he had not taken sufficient food to preserve his strength; while severe pains in his back recalled to his mind the fearful experience in the burning factory, when he lay in the hallway held down by the firebrand. He entered a restaurant, and seating himself at a small table in a recess, ordered food. Then, taking a photograph from his pocket, he imprinted many kisses upon the pictured face of his wife. "Poor child!" he murmured. "She has already received my letter--God help her! I am sure, though, she will bid me return, as soon as she reads the letter."