But Maybelle, who knew from Otho all that had happened at Suicide Place the night when his dastardly plans had been foiled by Beresford’s timely appearance, trembled with inward rage and fear, suspecting Floy’s thinly-veiled meaning. Otho had left no stone unturned to find out all that had happened to Floy after Beresford took her away that night. The carriage-driver had been ferreted out and interviewed, although he had nothing to tell except that he had driven the pair to Bird’s Nest Cottage as fast as he could, and that they had lingered and parted at the door like lovers, with a kiss. In the story of that kiss all was told. Otho knew that St. George Beresford, unlike the generality of rich young men, was a man of honor. No young girl’s ruin lay at his door. He might flirt in a careless, non-committal way if invited to it by a pair of bold eyes, but he never trespassed the proprieties. Maybelle had led him on as far as any, for she was one of the most accomplished coquettes of the day; but his bearded lips had never pressed the bloom from her lips and cheeks. If languishing eyes had dared and tempted him to the feast, he had most successfully resisted the temptation. So Otho and his sister, knowing Beresford’s honor and Floy’s purity, knew full well the meaning of that kiss. It was the sacred pledge of their solemn betrothal. Ay, though they had known each other scarcely twenty-four hours, they had instantly recognized each other as soul-mates; their hearts had leaped together and melted into one beneath the burning sun of Love. “When Love, like a red rose, burns and blushes, How sweet is the kiss that warm lips give; The soul’s far deep at its coming hushes The thirsting passions that in them live.” Otho, mad with love for Floy, and Maybelle for Beresford, knew that something terrible indeed must happen if these two were to be prevented from marrying. Nothing short of Floy’s death or dishonor would keep the proud young aristocrat from making her his worshipful bride. Maybelle, in the madness of her jealous love, hated Floy with a terrible hate. She felt that she had come very near to winning Beresford’s love just before he met Floy. And she vainly imagined that with Floy removed from her path, she might yet succeed in her heart’s desire. Love, ambition, and jealousy combined had transformed Maybelle from a merely selfish, domineering girl into a relentless fiend. She felt as if she would like to murder innocent Floy with her laughing blue eyes, and her saucy, winning smile so frank and ready. Why should this girl, socially her inferior, and with only a babyish kind of beauty, have won in one brief, fateful day the prize that Maybelle had schemed for long, weary months, and which she would have sold her soul to win?