"Because there will be two brides to-morrow. I never break a promise. To-morrow, Don Juan Moraquitos will divide his fortune; one-half he will reserve for himself and his wife, the other he will give to his daughter and the husband of her choice." "But, Pauline, how in Heaven's name will you accomplish this?" "That is my secret. There is very little time left me for my work. It is now nine o'clock, I must go out immediately." "Go out, and at this hour?" "It is absolutely necessary." "But, dear Pauline, you will have my carriage, you will let me accompany you?" "Neither; I go on foot and alone." She hurried from the room before Camillia could remonstrate further, and the Spanish girl, bewildered and amazed, seated herself near the table, looking musingly at the two bridal wreaths. That night Silas Craig sat alone in the office in which was the map of America. The lawyer had triumphed over the man who had scorned him. He had seen Gerald Leslie's proud nature abased to the very dust, and the darling child of a doting father sold to her most deadly enemy; for the slave has no greater enemy than the hardened profligate, whose guilty passions her charms have awakened. Silas Craig was a winner in the game of life--what cared he for dark secrets upon the cards he had played? He was rich, and he could defy mankind. He had dined sumptuously after the fatigue of the slave sale, and the table before him was spread with glittering decanters of the choicest wines. This man reveled in the luxuries of a palace; but he had risen from the gutter; and his low and groveling soul still wore the degradation of the foul haunts in which he had been reared. He lounged in his easy chair, sipping wine, which sparkled like melted jewels in the light of the shaded lamp. He was disturbed from his reverie by the entrance of the slave who waited upon him. "A lady, massa," said the man. "A lady? a lady at this time of night? pshaw; why you must be dreaming." "No, massa, me wide awake. A lady, a very beautiful lady, with white hands and rings, oh, golly! dey shine like stars." "Did she tell you her name?" "No, massa, but she gib me dis." The negro handed Silas a card. This card bore the name of Mlle. Pauline Corsi. Beneath the card was written this warning: "There are secrets which Silas Craig may wish to preserve; if so, he will do well to see Mlle. Corsi." Like all base creatures, Silas was a coward. The card dropped from his trembling hand, and his bloated face grew ashy pale. "Admit the lady," he said. The slave left the room, and in a few minutes returned with Pauline Corsi. During those few brief moments, Silas Craig had recovered from his first impulse of terror. What could this woman know of his secrets? Who was she but the paid dependent of Don Juan Moraquitos? He had nothing to fear, therefore. All the native insolence of his nature returned, and when the governess entered the room, he neither rose from his seat nor offered her a chair.