On recovering from her long spell of unconsciousness, Elaine revealed the cause of her illness. Two hours, perhaps, had passed since Irene's maddened plunge into the water. It was too late to save her then. The cold waves kept their treasure, refusing to yield it up to the efforts of those who, headed by Mr. Kenmore, made an ineffectual trial to find even the cold, dead body of the desperate girl. Dawn broke with all the roseate beauty of summer, and the golden light glimmered far over land and sea, but neither the wide waste of waters nor the sandy reaches of shore gave back sign or token of her who had found life too hard to bear, and so had sought Nepenthe from its ills and pains. Guy Kenmore remained to Mr. Brooke's funeral, then returned to Baltimore a softened, saddened man--a man with a purpose. Two things had confirmed him in his purpose to trace the writer of the fragment found in the dead man's hand. On the night of Mr. Brooke's death no sign of violence had been discovered on his person. On the day following a purplish mark was discoverable on the old man's temple--a strange, discolored mark. Careless lookers believed it to be the effects of decomposition. Guy Kenmore, studying it with suspicious eyes, believed that it was caused by a blow--a blow that had caused Ronald Brooke's death. Another thing was, that when Elaine Brooke went into a delirious fever, that terrible dawn that broke on the tragic night, he had stood by her side a few moments, gazing at her in pain and sorrow. While he stood there she had startled him by calling wildly on one name. It was "Clarence, Clarence, Clarence!" He sought Bertha. "Will you tell me," he asked, gravely, and without preamble, "the name of the villain who deceived your sister?" Bertha colored and trembled in shame and agitation. "I cannot," she answered. "I am under a sacred promise not to reveal it." "Was it Clarence Stuart?" he asked, coolly, and Bertha gave a terrible start. "She has revealed it in her delirium," she exclaimed. "Yes," he answered, calmly, knowing that he had surprised the truth from her reluctant lips. Walking slowly along the shore, listening to the murmur of the waves, in which his bride of an hour had sought oblivion from the ills of life, Guy Kenmore thought it all out to his own satisfaction. That fragmentary line of a letter had told the whole sad story. Elaine Brooke had been truly a wife. Her husband's father had deceived her by a trumped up story, and divided her from her young husband. Dying, he had repented his sin, and written a letter of confession to her father. And here he fitted the second link of the story. Some person unknown had found it to be against his or her interests that the truth should be revealed. That person had followed the bearer of Clarence Stuart's letter, and had torn it from old Ronald Brooke's grasp, with a blow that meant death to the gentle, kindly old man.