Then a week passed before she came out of her own room again. A light attack of brain-fever had followed her swoon. Fortunately, it was very mild and soon subdued. In the meantime the Boston papers had duly chronicled the mysterious disappearance of Craig Severn, a young lawyer, who had been in charge of Lawyer Gardner’s office while the latter was abroad resting from overwork. The young wife of Mr. Severn, it was said, was almost frantic with grief, and feared foul play. Uncharitable people declared that Severn had led a fast life, and had, perhaps, disappeared with his employer’s funds. Mr. Gardner had been advised by cable of the facts. On the very day that Italy arose from her sick-bed, the newspapers announced the finding of Craig Severn’s body in the river, badly decomposed, and with a bullet-wound in the breast, showing that he had been murdered. CHAPTER VI. EMMETT’S PLEA. “Miss Vale, I hope you did not conceive an aversion for me the day you fainted so tragically at my feet,” said Percy Seabright. He had found Italy alone on the wide porch fronting the sea, a few days after her recovery. A chilly east wind blew from the beach, in spite of the warm sunshine, and she wore a picturesque dark-red cloak about the shoulders of her white serge yachting-dress with its smart gilt anchors. She had promised to join the yacht-club in a charming excursion that day. His voice was very kind and solicitous, and she answered frankly: “Oh, no, no, Mr. Seabright. On the contrary, I was prepared to like you very much, for Mr. Murray had been telling me that you were my father’s dearest friend.” Instantly a peculiar change came over his face. He had been smiling, but the smile faded into sadness and gloom on the lips and in the eyes, and his dark cheek seemed to grow livid with silent emotion. “Oh, forgive me!” cried the girl impulsively, and her heart warmed toward him. “You loved him, and it grieves you still to remember his sad fate.” “Yes, I loved him,” Percy Seabright answered huskily, “and as Mr. Murray has told you, I was Ronald’s dearest friend. Will you be my friend, too--for his sake?” He held out to her a graceful white hand, and after a moment’s embarrassed pause, Italy placed hers in it, meeting a warm, strong pressure that she permitted but did not return. Some strange emotion thrilled her at the touch, she hardly knew whether it was pleasure or repulsion. “Will you promise to be my friend?” he repeated, in an eager, impulsive way, with a winning smile. “I--hope--I--will,” she answered, a little deliberately; “I scarcely know you yet, you know, and I am not used to choosing friends so quickly. Mama always told me it was rash to do so--that one might be mistaken, and that friends should be tried and proved--but still, you were my father’s friend. He loved you, trusted you.” “And why not you?” he exclaimed, with a persuasive glance of his bright dark eyes that somehow won her to reply: “I will.”