"For heaven's sake, Gerald, do not force me to answer you. Let us talk of something else." "I open my heart to you," said Gerald, with sad insistence, "and you close yours to me." "You cut me to the quick. Yes, I was true to her, but she was not true to me. There is the tragedy or the comedy--which you like, Gerald--related in less than a dozen words. It is a story which all men live to tell--all men, I mean, with the exception of yourself." "I am a selfish brute, to compel you to expose your wounds. Poor Len! If she had been like my Emilia you would not have had to tell the tale. We can do nothing more to-night." "Nothing that I can see." "I am so full of my own grief that I forget to sympathize with yours, but I am truly sorry for you. At this moment Emilia is thinking of me; there is a spiritual whisper in the air which assures me of this. Would it be really best to go back to the hotel?" "It would be wisest, both for your sake and for Emilia's. Early in the morning we can commence again. Gerald, to stop out any longer would be folly. You would not dare to knock at the door of any house at this hour and inquire for Emilia; it would be the ruin of her. You have her honor to guard, as well as your own happiness to look after." "I am blind, and utterly, utterly selfish. Heaven has sent you to guide and counsel me. Yes, we will go." They returned to the hotel, and Gerald gave directions that he should be called early in the morning. He and Leonard wished each other good-night, and retired to their separate rooms. As Leonard undressed he chuckled at the successful progress he had made. Everything had worked in his favor, and would so work to the end. He had no doubt of that, with his hand on the wheel. So he closed his eyes, and went to sleep contented and happy. Gerald stood by the window and thought of Emilia. To-morrow they would be together; to-morrow all would be well. He threw the window open and looked out. Could his sight have reached the distance he would have seen a pitiful figure staggering on through country roads, stopping ever and anon to recover her breath, then starting feverishly on again, with panting bosom and streaming eyes, mournfully grateful for the darkness that encompassed her, and dreading the coming day. Slander's foul work was being accomplished. Dark as it was, Emilia saw the malignant eyes; silent as it was, she heard the hard voices. On and on she stumbled, praying for rest. Gerald was false; she did not care to live. CHAPTER XXIX. ON THE TRACK. As early, as practicable in the morning Gerald was astir, continuing his inquiries for the missing girl. Leonard, of course, accompanied him, with the pretence of being very busy and as anxious as Gerald for the success of the search, but inwardly fuming at his step-brother's activity. His spirits rose as hour after hour passed fruitlessly by; his hopeful anticipations were being realized; Emilia was gone, never to return again.