Then, at the head of the lower flight of stairs, he heard Doctor Stevens's voice. He was speaking to someone behind him, and there was a ring in his tone which caused Donald's heart to leap up and his blood to pound in his temples. He took one step nearer the door, and at that instant Doctor Stevens saw him. "Don!" he exclaimed, with a curious note of anger--almost of alarm--in his voice. "Don, I told you not to come here! Not to come here on any account! I thought I made it plain----Oh!----" The expression on Donald's face had altered from confusion and surprise to blinding, dazzling amazement. He was not conscious that there was any one present save that one figure among several figures coming down the stairs. He cried out--he threw out his arms---- "Mary!" he said, in a choking whisper. "You know me! You know me, at last!" And then, with a sudden cry, he recoiled in horror. The woman who, at the mention of his name, had turned toward him with a gasp of surprise, had, at the same instant, stepped full into the light. In her great clear eyes there were love, pain, fear--hope--and an agonizing tenderness. Swiftly, she put up her hand and covered the right side of her face. But he had seen--had seen, upon the smooth curve of chin and neck, a great red mark--like the print of a bloody hand. He stood aghast, amazed. All his senses reeled. "Anne!" he cried, incredulous, staring--"Anne!" "Oh, Donald," she moaned, "I didn't mean it to be like this, dear. I didn't mean it to be like this!" "Mary's voice," he muttered, still staring at her. "And Mary's face, all except the mark--the mark was on Anne's face--Clancy told me. You are _Anne_?" She bowed her head in silence. Tears filled her glorious eyes. "And Mary--is upstairs," he breathed. "And yet, when you speak, it's impossible not to believe----" She shook her head. "It's my sister, Rosamond, up there," she faltered. "My poor, misguided little sister that I--lost years ago--that I loved more than anything I had left in the world--until I saw you.... I never heard of her--never saw her again until to-day.... You never saw her, Donald. You never saw her until--was it yesterday?... We always looked very much alike--except----" She pressed her hand closer against her cheek. "It was no wonder, seeing her as you did, that you mistook her for----" "I can't understand." Donald gripped his head with both hands, gazing at her with strained, bewildered eyes. "You _are_ Anne?" "Yes," she answered, sadly. "I am Anne Curwood.... Forgive me. Oh, forgive me, dear!" She stretched out her hands, pleadingly. "I had planned it all so differently. You can hardly forgive me now. But try to understand. There is no Mary Blake. There never has been. It was I--Anne. There is no one but Anne." "No one but--Anne," he repeated, incredulous.