“She was here in this house at midnight last night. I was lying asleep on my bed. The windows were raised, for the air was oppressively warm. Then, too, I liked to smell the mingled odors of rose and honeysuckle clambering up the trellis. It was clear, bright moonlight, so I extinguished my lamp when I retired.” “Yes, yes; go on, Maybelle!” breathed Otho, impatiently. “I fell asleep, and rested calmly until about midnight, when I awakened in a fright, for some one was shaking me rudely. “‘Get up--get up, Maybelle Maury! I want the letters my lover wrote me--the letters you have stolen!’ cried an angry voice. “I started bolt upright in bed, frightened almost to death, and half-dazed by being so suddenly roused from sleep, and there before me was that little vixen Floy, all in ghastly white, her golden hair all in a fluff over her head like a halo. She stood in a patch of white moonlight that made her look ethereal, and in my confusion I really took her for a ghost!” “Pshaw!” exclaimed Otho, impatiently; and Maybelle said, deprecatingly: “You must remember that I was roused from sleep and taken by surprise, or I should not have been so easily deceived. And she was so imperative, she did not give me time to collect my thoughts, but went on, angrily: “‘Get up, Maybelle Maury, you wicked, wicked girl, and give me my letters this minute, or I will go to your Mother and tell her how cruelly you and Otho have treated me! You will not enjoy that, for your mother is a good woman; she would be shocked if she knew that you told the postman a lie that you might get my letters and keep them from me.’” “She did not talk much like a ghost,” interpolated Otho. “No, she did not, but I was so dazed and frightened I did not realize it then. And the little vixen kept scolding and threatening and pointing her finger at me until I felt like one under a hypnotic spell, and afraid to disobey; so, following the pointing of her finger, I rose from my bed, staggered tremblingly to my desk, and handed her the package of letters I had intercepted. Then, overcome by horror, I fell unconscious upon the bed. When I revived, my midnight visitor had disappeared.” “It was Floy herself!” declared Otho, with bitter chagrin. “Yes, I am certain of it--have not doubted it since I came to my sober senses,” answered Maybelle, with a choking sigh of futile rage. “Oh, how I hate myself,” she continued, “for giving her those letters! She is gloating over them--rejoicing at every tender word--while I--I could strangle her with my own hands for her triumph over me!” “And I!” cried Otho, burning with murderous jealousy at thought of Floy’s innocent joy at the recovery of her love letters. He could fancy what tender words Beresford would write to his darling, and how her eyes would beam with joy as she read them over. He felt, like Maybelle, that he would like to strangle the joy in her sweet white throat with murderous hands. CHAPTER XXIV. “A ROYAL ROAD TO FORTUNE.”