overy was so astounding that at first
it seemed absurd.

'You've never done that caricature of Arthur for me that you promised,'
she said, suddenly.

'I've tried, but he doesn't lend himself to it,' laughed Susie.

'With that long nose and the gaunt figure I should have thought you could
make something screamingly funny.'

'How oddly you talk of him! Somehow I can only see his beautiful, kind
eyes and his tender mouth. I would as soon do a caricature of him as
write a parody on a poem I loved.'

Margaret took the portfolio in which Susie kept her sketches. She caught
the look of alarm that crossed her friend's face, but Susie had not the
courage to prevent her from looking. She turned the drawings carelessly
and presently came to a sheet upon which, in a more or less finished
state, were half a dozen heads of Arthur. Pretending not to see it, she
went on to the end. When she closed the portfolio Susie gave a sigh of
relief.

'I wish you worked harder,' said Margaret, as she put the sketches down.
'I wonder you don't do a head of Arthur as you can't do a caricature.'

'My dear, you mustn't expect everyone to take such an overpowering
interest in that young man as you do.'

The answer added a last certainty to Margaret's suspicion. She told
herself bitterly that Susie was no less a liar than she. Next day, when
the other was out, Margaret looked through the portfolio once more, but
the sketches of Arthur had disappeared. She was seized on a sudden with
anger because Susie dared to love the man who loved her.

The web in which Oliver Haddo enmeshed her was woven with skilful
intricacy. He took each part of her character separately and fortified
with consummate art his influence over her. There was something satanic
in his deliberation, yet in actual time it was almost incredible that he
could have changed the old abhorrence with which she regarded him into
that hungry passion. Margaret could not now realize her life apart from
his. At length he thought the time was ripe for the final step.

'It may interest you to know that I'm leaving Paris on Thursday,' he said
casually, one afternoon.

She started to her feet and stared at him with bewildered eyes.

'But what is to become of me?'

'You will marry the excellent Mr Burdon.'

'You know I cannot live without you. How can you be so cruel?'

'Then the only alternative is that you should accompany me.'

Her blood ran cold, and her heart seemed pressed in an