At the sound of her Christian name (which he had never pronounced before) Abbie turned white with a sort of sick disgust and shame. But she raised her eyes and met the intense gaze of the tall, dark man that she had seen before. He stood, his elbow on the high desk and his square, clean-shaven chin in his hand. He was neatly dressed, with a rose in his button-hole, and an immaculate pink-and-white silk shirt; but he hardly seemed (to Abbie) like a man of her own class. Nevertheless, she did not resent his keen look; on the contrary, she experienced a sudden thrill of hope—something of the same feeling she had known years and years ago, when she ran away from her nurse, and a big policeman found her, both her little slippers lost in the mud of an alley, she wailing and paddling along in her stocking feet, and carried her home in his arms. “Yes, Miss Courtlandt”—she winced at the voice of the justice—“it is my duty under the—hem—unusual circumstances of this case, to ask you if you are entering into this—hem—solemn contract of matrimony, which is a state honorable in the sight of God and man, by the authority vested in me by the State of Illinois—hem—to ask you if you are entering it of your own free-will and consent—are you, miss?” Abbie’s sad gray eyes met the magistrate’s look of perplexed inquiry; her lips trembled. “Are you, Abbie?” said the clairvoyant, in a gentle tone. “Yes,” answered Abbie; “of my own free-will and consent.” “I guess, professor, I must see the lady alone,” said the justice, dryly. “You caynt believe it is a case of true love laffs at the aristocrats, can you, squire?” sneered Slater; “but jest as she pleases. Are you willing to see him, Abbie?” “Whether Miss Courtlandt is willing or not,” interrupted the tall man, in a mellow, leisurely voice, “I guess _I_ will have to trouble you for a small ‘sceance’ in the other room, Marker.” “And who are you, sir?” said Slater, civilly, but with a truculent look in his blue eyes. “This is Mr. Amos Wickliff, of Iowa, special officer,” the justice said, waving one hand at the man and the other at Abbie. Wickliff bowed in Abbie’s direction, and saluted the fortune-teller with a long look in his eyes, saying: “Wasn’t Bill Marker that I killed out in Arizona your cousin?” “My name ain’t Marker, and I never had a cousin killed by you or anybody,” snapped back the fortune-teller, in a bigger and rounder voice than he had used before. Wickliff merely narrowed his bright black eyes, opened a door, and motioned within, saying, “Better.” The fortune-teller scowled, but he walked through the door, and Wickliff, following, closed it behind him. Abbie looked dumbly at the justice. He sighed, rubbed his hands together, and placed a chair against the wall.