"My dear aunt, don't be hysterical. John, call Mrs. Conway's maid to attend her. Aunt Conway, there is nothing to alarm you--nothing at all;" and, putting her back on her sofa, he went out to meet his unbidden guest. The captain was a fine-looking man, of perhaps forty years, blue-eyed, blonde-haired, and much be-whiskered. He stood very courteously in the middle of the floor, hat in hand, as Bruce entered the library. "Mr. Conway?" he interrogated, smoothly. "At your service, sir," said Bruce. "Mr. Conway," said the gentleman, with a glittering smile that showed all his lovely white teeth, "I am the bearer to you of a message from Senator Winans. My friend, sir, considers himself insulted by you, and demands such satisfaction as all gentlemen accord each other." He placed an open note in Mr. Conway's hand, who silently perused it. It was a challenge to fight a duel. "Any friend of yours can call on me to-morrow at three to settle the preliminaries," suggested the blonde captain, placidly smiling up into Mr. Conway's impassive face, and taking his acceptance for granted. "Very well, sir; I will send a friend of mine to you quite punctually at three to-morrow. Is that satisfactory for the present?" "Quite so, sir; very much so, sir," smoothly returned Captain Fontenay, bowing his quite imposing military presence out. CHAPTER V. WHAT THE WINNER'S HAND THREW BY. "Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words That ever blotted paper."--SHAKESPEARE. "Farewell!--a word that hath been and must be, A sound that makes us linger--yet, farewell!" --BYRON'S CHILDE HAROLD. Grace Winans waked from her troubled sleep with a vague presentiment of impending evil. She heard the small clock on the mantel chiming seven, and looked about her half bewildered. The shaded taper burned faintly in the room, and the gray morning light stole dimly through the closed shutters and lace curtains. Her baby lay on her arm, sleeping sweetly in his warm white nest. She raised her head a little, only to sink back wearily with a dull, fevered throbbing in her temples, and a sharp pang of remembrance that forced a low cry from her lips: "Oh, Paul!" Where was he? She thought of the study, and with a pang at fancy of his tiresome vigil, eased the baby lightly off her arm, and tucking him softly round, donned dressing-gown and slippers, and stole gently down stairs, rapped slightly at the door, then opened it and entered. The light still burned in the room, looking garish and wan in the pale beams of morning; the easy-chair was drawn near the writing-table, but vacant. She glanced around her. He was not there, and no trace of him remained. The young wife slowly retraced her steps.