Vague sadness fills Hortense Duval's heart as she wanders through her silent mansion, choosing these little belongings which are dear to her shadowed heart. They will rob a Parisian home of suspicious newness. The control of the heiress as well as their own child, the ample monetary provision, and the social platform arranged for her, prove Hardin's devotion. It is the best she can do. True, he cannot now marry with safety. He has promised to right that wrong in time. There has been no want of tenderness in his years of devotion. Hortense Duval acknowledges to herself that he dares not own her openly, as his wife, even here. But in Paris, after a year or so. Then he could come, at least as far as New York. He could meet her, and by marriage, legitimize his child. Her child. The tiger's darling. A sudden thought strikes her. Some other woman!--Some one of REAL station and blood. Ah, no! She shivers slightly as she paces the room. No corner of the earth could hide him from her vengeance if he betrays her. The dinner of the last evening is a serious feast. As Hortense ministers to the dark master of the house, she can see he has not fully disclosed his ultimate plans. It is positive the child must be hidden away at Paris from all. Hardin enjoins silence as to the future prospects of the orphan. The little one has already forgotten her father. She is rapidly losing all memories of her sweet mother. In the silence of these last hours, Philip Hardin speaks to the woman who has been his only intimate in years. "Hortense, I may find a task for you which will prove your devotion," he begins with reluctance. "What is it, Philip?" she falters. He resumes. "I do not know how far I may be pushed by trouble. I shall have to struggle and fight to hold my own. I am safe for a time, but I may be pushed to the wall. Will you, for the sake of our own child, do as I bid you with that Spanish brat?" At last she sees his gloomy meaning. Is it murder? An orphan child! "Philip," she sobs, "be careful! For MY SAKE, for YOUR OWN." She is chilled by his cold designs. "Only at the last. Just as I direct, I may wish you to control the disappearance of that young one, who stands between me and our marriage." She seizes his hands: "Swear to me that you will never deceive me." "I do," he answers huskily. "On the cross," she sternly says, flashing before his startled eyes a jewelled crucifix. "I will obey you--I swear it on this--as long as you are true." She presses her ashy lips on the cross. He kisses it. The promise is sealed. In a few hours, Hortense Duval, from the deck of the swift Golden Gate, sees the sunlight fall for the last time, in long years, on San Francisco's sandy hills.