“For these simple faults I was driven like a criminal from his heart and home,” she cried, bitterly. “Can you wonder, Lord Stuart, that, driven to madness by his scorn, I planned and carried out such a bitter revenge upon my cruel husband?” He looked at her inquiringly; and with fiendish joy that made her appear most revolting to him, she told him all that she had done--how a pauper’s dead body had been palmed off on Norman de Vere as her own, and how in the hour of his most exquisite happiness she had struck the full cup of happiness from his lips, and driven the girl he loved away with her child into exile and misery. He listened without one word of reply. Bad as he knew her to be, he could scarcely credit this crowning act of fiendishness. As soon as she paused he arose. “Can you tell me where to find Mr. de Vere?” he asked. “I can not,” she answered, stiffly, although she knew perfectly well through her spy, Finette, where he was. But she saw, with bitter mortification, that Lord Stuart’s sympathies were not with her, but had gone out silently to the noble man of whose life she had made such a foot-ball of fate. “You take his part against me!” she said, with flashing eyes and her most regal air. He was going to the door; but he turned back, very pale and moved, and gazed steadfastly into her excited face. “I take your part against yourself,” he answered, gravely. “I would save you from the fate you are bringing down upon yourself, because--well, because I loved you once, although I am ashamed of it now. But, Camille, if you stay on here at Verelands, this horrible vengeance of which you boast is going to recoil in terrible disaster on your own head. Be warned in time. Tell the truth, and crave Norman de Vere’s pardon for your wickedness. If you will not do that, go away far from here and hide yourself as far as possible from the storm of disgrace that is going to break on your head.” A tremor ran over her at the earnestness with which he spoke, but she laughed aloud with the recklessness of a desperate woman. “I shall never leave Verelands again, and I defy the disasters you predict, Lord Stuart,” she replied, daringly. He did not reply. He simply bowed and hastened from her presence, drawing a breath of relief at his escape. “Oh, brother, how strange you look! What is it?” Lady Edith cried, starting up anxiously to meet him. “It is nothing,” he said, drawing his arm about the trembling figure. “I told you,” he added, “that there was some mistake. Mr. de Vere and his wife are both away from home, Edith.” “But the girl said that Thea was sick.” “She said that Mrs. de Vere was sick. It was the elder lady.” “Norman’s mother?” “Yes. Heaven forgive me, but she must not know yet,” he added to himself. “But where are they gone? It is rather strange; for he knew we were coming!” cried poor Lady Edith, in disappointment and distress.