"You are in luck, my boy," chuckled Clifford Standish, to himself. He had just read in a New York newspaper of the death of his deserted wife. No pity stirred his cruel heart as his eye ran over the few paragraphs that told him in a sensational manner of the cause of her death. Deserted by her husband, in ill-health, and unable to work, penniless, friendless, the unhappy woman had frozen to death in a miserable attic-room during the prevalence of a terrible blizzard. He was guilty of her death, he knew, yet not one twinge of remorse tore his cruel heart for the fate to which he had consigned that true and tender wife. She was out of his path forever, leaving him free to carry out his wicked designs, and he rejoiced exceedingly. Fate seemed to favor him, although for a while things had looked exceedingly dark. But that was when he had discovered that his murderous knife-thrust had not killed Harry Hawthorne. He had been terribly alarmed at first, fearing that Hawthorne would set the authorities on his track, and that he would have to fly the city. But, for some unknown reason, his victim had stayed his hand in vengeance, and by careful reconnoitering he found that he had left the city. Standish could not comprehend why his rival had thrown up the game like this; but he finally concluded that Geraldine's altered position in life had caused her to break off her engagement with the young fireman. But, whatever the cause, he rejoiced at the issue, and prepared to take advantage of it by getting Geraldine again into his power. His passion for the beautiful girl and his determination to possess her grew and strengthened from hour to hour and from day to day. All he had felt for others in the past compared to this grand passion, was "As moonlight unto sunlight, And as water unto wine." And now he swore to himself that he would possess her by a tie none could dispute. He would marry pretty Geraldine, the dainty heiress, and teach her to love him. Surely, he said to himself, out of his measureless conceit, she could not find it hard to love him. She had been very near to it once. But in this fancy he was quite mistaken. His attentions had simply flattered her girlish vanity. Her heart had not been touched. He waited impatiently for the letter from Miss Errol, planning the kidnaping but it did not come. The miserable woman, although distracted by fears for her own safety, had not yet brought herself to the point of consenting to become a party to Geraldine's ruin. Every impulse in her woman's nature cried out against doing such a cruel wrong to the fair young girl she admired so much. So she delayed replying to his letter, until, angered by her delay, he wrote again: "You have not replied to my letter. Of course you know the terrible risk you run by your silence. But I will give you one more chance.