“I did; telling her all the facts, and claiming my wife at her hands.” “Well?” “At first, she refused to answer me; but when I told her of our marriage, she admitted everything, but persisted in stating that Louisa died in the hospital and was buried from her house, the servants believing that she had been brought home from a Catholic school. She was very anxious that I should keep my marriage and the manner of my wife’s death a secret; and up to this time I have done so.” “May not this possibly be true?” inquired George De Marke, with sudden animation. “No; I have searched the wards and traced all the facts. It is useless to guess what Mrs. Judson’s motives for concealment are; but it was Catharine Lacy who was taken from the hospital after her death, by an undertaker, and carried in the night to Mrs. Judson’s house, from which there was a pompous funeral the next day. The undertaker showed me his certificate for burial, but said that he had never seen the lady, as all the bills were paid by one of the nurses at the hospital.” “Did you find this nurse?” “No; she left the hospital about that time, and I could get no intelligence regarding her.” “Did you question Mrs. Judson about her niece, my wife?” inquired George, still disturbed by a vague hope. “Yes; but she denied all knowledge of her whatever.” “It is a sad mystery,” sighed George, falling into deeper dejection from that one gleam of hope. “The fate of my poor wife seems to be certain, and it is impossible that yours could have been living without leaving some sure trace of her existence. She probably never came away from the wharf where that old man saw the darkness gathering around her. Deep water is a terrible temptation to persons driven to despair, as she was.” Louis De Marke arose and began to walk the room. George took his hat and went into the street. Neither of the young men had the heart for any further conversation that day. CHAPTER LX. THE FEMALE MISER IN HER DEN. “Peg—Peg, don’t you hear me, Peg! I am tired and _so_ hungry, Peg. Will no one give me drink or a mouthful to eat?” This oft-repeated complaint was answered by a hoarse croak from the small hen-coop that stood on the floor, and three lank chickens thrust forth their open bills and withered, thin necks, through the upright bars of their prison, casting side glances toward the old woman, whose face and hands drooped over the side of the bed.