But Fedora was scheming in her mind how to turn her secret to account. She hated Kathleen too bitterly to show her any kindness; but if she could pay for the secret she wanted so badly, why, let her have it. She looked at Kathleen with a cunning expression. "There is one condition on which I will tell you what you want to know." "I have already told you that I have no money." "I do not mean money. Listen, Miss Carew: You know Ivan Belmont?" "Yes," with a contemptuous gesture. "He is a friend of mine; and if he knew about my trouble he would try to help me, I think. Do you know where he is? Can you send word to him?" "I do not know anything about his whereabouts." "You must find out. You must tell him that I, Fedora, have sent you to him. Tell him I command him to come to me here. Return to me with a letter from Ivan Belmont, and you shall hear the truth about the diamonds. I swear it!" They gazed at each other--Fedora flushed and eager, Kathleen excited, sorely tempted. "What say you? Is my price too great?" demanded the prisoner. "No," Kathleen replied. Turning to go, she said: "I will surely find Ivan Belmont, and bring the letter." The door closed. The prisoner was again alone within the grated cell. * * * * * The hours dragged on and brought the gloomy night. With it there hovered over the great city the black and vulture wings of a terrible storm. It hissed, it roared, it swept with devastating, cyclonic force through that area where the prison was situated. Trees, roofs, houses even, yielded to its terrific fury, and flew like feathers before its angry breath. The poor prisoners, cowering in superstitious terror before the awful voices of the warring elements, prayed to God for mercy; but the answer seemed far, far away, for suddenly there came a terrible, deafening roar; the earth seemed to rock like a cradle, and the great stone tower of the prison fell with a sound as though heaven and hell had clashed, while lurid flames shot up from the awful ruin into the midnight air. Sentence of death had already been pronounced on many who were awaiting trial, and many a soul went up in that holocaust of smoke and flame and tempest to render an account of the deeds done in the flesh. Some few survived, some few escaped. Where was Fedora? CHAPTER LXIV. "YOUR FATHER IS GEORGE HARRISON, THE CONVICT!" It is a common fate--a woman's lot-- To waste on one the riches of her soul, Who takes the wealth she gives him, but can not Repay the interest, and much less the whole. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.