Then he remembered that Mrs. Vere de Vere had told him yesterday that Maybelle was coming to New York to-day. So he hurried to Fifth Avenue, and found her just arrived. He drew her aside to tell her what had happened to Floy, and even his callous nature was shocked at her savage glee. “What a cruel heart you have, Maybelle!” he cried in disgust. She flashed him an angry look, and answered: “I am no worse than you, Otho. Remember what a fate you plotted for the girl! She is better off as it is, for death is better than dishonor.” “A fine sentiment,” he gibed, wondering if she thought herself quite honorable, as she had connived at the plot. She read his thought, and tossed her head defiantly, thinking how glad she was that Floy was out of her way, by whatever means. Otho sighed, and said: “If you are going back to Mount Vernon to-morrow, perhaps you will break the news to Mrs. Banks? Poor soul!” “No, I shall not go so soon. Besides, we need not hurry. Better wait till all is over. If she found out before Floy died, she would want to come down here and see her, and mamma could not really spare her now. She is busy with the summer sewing,” Maybelle answered, heartlessly. “I must be going,” he said, with a tortured sigh, remorse heavy at his heart. “No, stay, and go with us to the _matinée_ to see ‘Trilby.’ Mrs. Vere de Vere has invited a little box party--the Van Dorns and the Beresfords. Join us, and you may get in a word with Alva Beresford.” “Hang Alva Beresford!” he replied, with the impatience of pain. “Don’t be a fool, Otho. You know you said you would help me catch St. George if I would perform a similar office for you with Alva.” “Yes, I know; but when did she get back from Paris and her painting?” “Oh, weeks and weeks ago, and they say she has fitted up a magnificent studio at home and paints away all the time, as if she had to work for a living.” “Well, then, what’s the use of my making up to such a girl? She has refused every fellow in society, I’m told. And she’s getting quite a spinster--bachelor girl, I mean--isn’t that the latest fad?” “Alva is twenty-seven, that’s a fact--nearly three years older than her brother--but she is still the most magnificent beauty in New York, and will have millions at her father’s death. She is devoted to her daubing--‘wedded to her art,’ she calls it--but she’s only a woman after all, and some day she will lose her heart, of course. And why not to you, Otho, as well as another?” cried Maybelle, eagerly. CHAPTER XVIII. “CUPID.” Otho Maury joined the theater party to see “Trilby,” and devoted himself to the beautiful brown-eyed Alva Beresford, who looked like a young princess, and accepted his devotion with the careless patronage of one who knows that homage is her due. It was her first meeting with Otho, and she read him at sight, and despised him accordingly, perhaps fathoming his designs on her fortune as she had already fathomed Maybelle’s efforts to insnare St. George.