leave me here
miserable, and lonely, or will you stay with me, your own husband.'

'I'll go back with Owen.'

'Very well.' He relinquished his coaxing tone, and went on sternly: 'And
remember this, Cytherea, I am as innocent of deception in this thing as
you are yourself. Do you believe me?'

'I do,' she said.

'I had no shadow of suspicion that my first wife lived. I don't think
she does even now. Do you believe me?'

'I believe you,' she said.

'And now, good-evening,' he continued, opening the door and politely
intimating to the three men standing by that there was no further
necessity for their remaining in his room. 'In three days I shall claim
her.'

The lawyer and the hotel-keeper retired first. Owen, gathering up as
much of his sister's clothing as lay about the room, took her upon his
arm, and followed them. Edward, to whom she owed everything, who had
been left standing in the street like a dog without a home, was utterly
forgotten. Owen paid the landlord and the lawyer for the trouble he had
occasioned them, looked to the packing, and went to the door.

A fly, which somewhat unaccountably was seen lingering in front of the
house, was called up, and Cytherea's luggage put upon it.

'Do you know of any hotel near the station that is open for night
arrivals?' Owen inquired of the driver.

'A place has been bespoke for you, sir, at the White Unicorn--and the
gentleman wished me to give you this.'

'Bespoken by Springrove, who ordered the fly, of course,' said Owen to
himself. By the light of the street-lamp he read these lines, hurriedly
traced in pencil:--

'I have gone home by the mail-train. It is better for all parties that
I should be out of the way. Tell Cytherea that I apologize for having
caused her such unnecessary pain, as it seems I did--but it cannot be
helped now. E.S.'

Owen handed his sister into the vehicle, and told the flyman to drive
on.

'Poor Springrove--I think we have served him rather badly,' he said to
Cytherea, repeating the words of the note to her.

A thrill of pleasure passed through her bosom as she listened to them.
They were the genuine reproach of a lover to his mistress; the trifling
coldness of her answer to him would have been noticed by no man who
was only a friend. But, in entertaining that sweet thought, she had
forgotten herself, and her position for the instant.

Was she still Manston's wife--that was the terrible supposition, and
her future seemed st