"I do not wish to force myself upon her," he said. "I do not wish to be troublesome in any way. But when she is conscious, I want you just to show her half a dozen words which I will write on the back of a card. If, when she has read them, she still wishes me to go, I will do so without attempting to see her again." The woman nodded. "Very well," she said; "wait outside." He left the room and walked softly up and down the passage, eyeing with some contempt the rich faded curtains and quaint artistic furniture about the place, so unlike the gilded glories of his own taste. In about half an hour the housekeeper came out to him. "She is conscious now," she said; "give me your message." He gave her a card on which he had already penciled a few words, and waited, terribly anxious, for the result. The woman withdrew, and closed the door. For a moment there was silence. Then a wild, fierce cry rang out from the room and echoed through the house. Before it had died away the door was flung open, and she stood on the threshold, her white hair streaming down her back, and every vestige of color gone from her face. Her eyes, too, shone with a feverish glow which fascinated him. "Is it you who wrote this?" she cried, holding up the card clenched in her trembling fingers. "If you are a man, tell me, is it true?" "I believe it is," he answered. "In my own mind, I am certain that it is. You are the only person who can prove it. I want you to come to England with me." "I am ready," she said. "When can we start?" He looked at his watch. "I will be here in half an hour with a carriage," he said. "If we can get over the hills by midday, we shall catch the express." "Go, then," she said calmly; "I shall be waiting for you." He hurried away, and soon returned with a carriage from the inn. In less than an hour they had commenced their journey to England. * * * * * It was an early summer evening in Mayfair, and Sir Allan Beaumerville stood on the balcony of his bijou little house, for which he had lately deserted the more stately family mansion in Grosvenor Square. There was a soft pleasant stillness in the air, and a gentle rustling of green leaves among the trees. The streets below were almost blocked with streams of carriages and hansoms, for the season was not yet over, and it was fast approaching the fashionable dinner hour. Overhead, in somewhat curious contrast, the stars were shining in a deep cloudless sky, and a golden-horned moon hung down in the west.