Constance talked on, answering questions and
making observations, without allowing Sybil to see the surprise and
sorrow that filled her heart; and, not until many days later did she
recall her friend's wild words, to see how much of method there might be
in this seeming madness.

"Mr. Belknap was conducting the search for the diamonds, you know,
Sybil?"

Sybil seemed making an effort to collect her scattered senses.

"Yes, yes, Conny, go on," she whispered.

"I have paid him off and am done with him; that's about all, dear."

"Conny," in a half whisper, "is he _gone_?"

"I don't know about that; he said something about remaining here for a
time."

"Oh!" ejaculated Sybil, and then, under her breath, "My God!"

Constance shuddered as she looked upon the shivering figure before her,
the wavering eyes, the hands clenching and unclenching themselves; she
found conversation difficult, and began to wonder how she could avoid
subjects that brought painful thoughts or suggestions. But suddenly a
change came over Sybil; sitting erect, she looked fixedly at her friend,
and asked:

"Conny, has _he_ tormented you of late?"

"He! Sybil; you mean--"

"I mean my curse! has he dared to annoy you? He has sworn that he will
be accepted and recognized as your friend."

Constance laughed a short, sarcastic laugh.

"Be at rest, Sybil; he never will."

"No;" with a strange dropping of the voice. "_He never will!_"

Again she seemed struggling to recover herself, and to recall some
thought; then she looked up and asked abruptly:

"Conny, have you promised to marry my--Frank Lamotte?"

"No, Sybil."

"Then--promise, _promise_ me, Constance, as if I were on my dying bed,
that you never will."

"Why, Sybil, dear?"

"Don't ask for reasons, don't; promise, _promise_, PROMISE!"

She was growing excited, and Constance hastened to say:

"You are laboring under some delusion, dear child; Frank has not offered
himself to me."

"But he will! he will! and I tell you, Constance, it would be giving
yourself to a fate like mine, and worse. The Lamottes have not done with
disgrace yet, and it shall not fall on you; promise me, Con."

"I promise, Sybil."

"You promise;" she arose from her chair and came close to Constance;
"you promise," she said, slowly, "never, _never_ to marry Francis
Lamotte?"

[Illustration: "You promise never to marry Francis Lamotte?"]

"I swear it."

A coarse laugh, a smothered oath; they both turn