Her story was interesting, but it threw no light on the deep mystery of Florence Fane’s fate. So he went back to New York to tell his wealthy patron that he had failed in his quest. “I have learned all that was possible to find out about her,” he said. “It is agreed by all who know her that she was lovely and fascinating to a high degree. She had many admirers, but she had laughed at them in her pretty, saucy fashion, and all believed that she was heart-whole and fancy-free.” He found Mrs. Beresford and Alva so strangely interested in the young girl’s fate that he told them all he had heard at Mount Vernon of her romantic story, and added: “It seems likely that there is a stain of madness in the blood leading ultimately to suicide. This young girl, inheriting this terrible taint, and suffering an aberration of mind from her fall, may have fled from the hospital straight to the cold embrace of the river.” They shuddered, the two beautiful, high-born women, at his words, but Mrs. Beresford said quickly: “Although it is a plausible theory, there is one weak point in it.” Landon looked at her inquiringly, and she said: “If a strain of madness in the race led its members to suicide, why did one who was alien to them--a hired man on the place, I think you said--prove the victim in one decade?” “That fact escaped my mind while I was speaking,” he replied, “so my theory really has no ground to stand on. The horror-haunted house must really have some malign influence, must be haunted, as the young girl averred.” “It is a strange story you have told us, Mr. Landon, and makes the young girl more interesting to us than before. I hope you will not entirely give up the search, for success would be liberally rewarded,” said Mrs. Beresford, as she handed him a munificent check for his two weeks’ services. He bowed himself out, and then the mask of conventionality fell from the proud woman’s face, and it grew sad to the verge of tears. “Oh, my son, my son!” she sobbed under her breath, and the thought of him was like a sword in her wounded heart. She had that day received from St. George the sorrowful letter in which he had renounced home and wealth for Love’s sake. Bitter was her anger, deep the wound in her heart, as she read the brief, manly words. “He is stubborn, foolish!” she cried, as she flung the letter to Alva. Her queenly daughter read it, and smiled her light, cynical smile. “How brave he is, how loyal to his love! I see now that he was in earnest, and I admire him more than ever!” she exclaimed. “Alva!” reproachfully. “I mean it all, mamma! I--I would not have my brother’s heart tortured as mine was in my spring of youth.” “Have we not humored every other whim, my darling?” “You have been most indulgent, but----” and Alva broke off with a long, quivering sigh. She was thinking: