“Perhaps he thinks I should release him, and that his indifference will goad me into it, but I will never do it, not even if he asked me! After all, I am afraid Frank is rather fickle in his love! He turned from me to another--that Jessie Lyndon that my aunt claimed as her daughter. If she had lived, I fear she would have made me trouble with Frank, for he must have secretly admired her, and it is fortunate for me in all ways that she died--for one thing, on account of her rivalry; the other, that now Aunt Verna will leave me her millions when she dies! And that may not be long, for she is certainly very ill now, and--ah!” her low soliloquy ended with a start as a young man abruptly entered the room. “Good morning, Miss Ellyson. I am glad you obeyed my summons so promptly,” he sneered, with coarse triumph. She frowned angrily as she cried: “You are impertinent, Carey Doyle. How dared you summon me here?” “You have ignored all my letters asking for money, and I had too much respect for your position to annoy you at your aunt’s, so I thought it was the best plan for you to meet me here and discuss matters.” “What is it that you wish?” “Money, of course!” “Wretch! I have paid you over and over for keeping that miserable secret!” “You have not paid me half that it was worth to you, my proud lady!” Carey Doyle answered boldly. She was furious with rage, her eyes gleaming, her face death-white, her small hands clenched. She thought bitterly that she wished he were dead and lying by the side of her victim down in the old stone quarry, the thought of whose ghastly secret had kept her sleepless many a night. But she had reasoned to herself many a time that the crime could never be traced to her, for she had covered up the clues too cleverly by her story of his suicidal threats. Even if they were to find the whitening bones of Ernest Noel down in the dim old quarry, they could not fasten his death on anybody. They would simply believe he had carried out his threat of suicide. Her anger blazed at the thought that in this insolent man, the witness of her evil deed, lay her only peril. “I will not give you any more money, I have exhausted my resources. Besides, I am not afraid of your story. You will not dare repeat it, for I would give you into custody for attempted blackmail!” she hissed threateningly. But Carey Doyle’s laugh was not reassuring. It stung her to fury, yet inspired her with alarm, though she persisted: “I am not afraid of you. No one will take your word against mine!” “You may risk it if you choose,” he answered, with persistent nonchalance. She measured him with a scornful glance, but she could not cow him, and her heart sank with fear. By to-morrow Frank Laurier would be in New York. Within a week, if woman’s wit could compass it, she would be his wife. Dare she risk any disclosure that might rouse her lover’s suspicions, and so postpone the wedding again?