urned and strode rapidly away.

"Frank."

He stopped and turned toward her, but did not retrace his steps.

"Are you really going, _a la Don Quixote_?"

"I really am," gravely.

He lifted his hat once more, and without uttering a word, resumed his
rapid walk down the graveled footpath. Reaching the entrance to the
grounds he paused, leaning for a moment against a stone pillar of the
gateway; his hands were clenched until the nails left deep indentations
in the flesh; his face was ghastly and covered with great drops of
perspiration, and, whether the look that shone from his glittering dark
eyes betokened rage, or despair, or both, an observer could not have
guessed.

Meanwhile, Constance stood as he had left her, gazing after him with a
mingled expression of annoyance and regret.

"It was very ungracious of me," she thought, half penitently, "but
there's no other way with Frank, and his love-making annoys me
exceedingly, especially since Aunt Honor's discovery. How she detests
him, and Aunt Honor is too easy to lavish her hate upon many."

As if conjured up by her words, Mrs. Aliston appeared at the window.

"Handsome fellow, isn't he?" that is what her lips said, but the tone
and look said quite as plainly, "detestable, abominable, odious." For
Mrs. Aliston believed that she had discovered a good reason for
disliking Frank Lamotte.

"Don't be exasperating, Aunt Honor," retorted Constance, re-entering the
window with a slow, languid movement, as if the events of the morning
had wearied her vastly. "Everybody has outdone themselves in the
disagreeable line, myself included. I wish the burglars had carried me
off along with my jewels. I am going up-stairs and try another dose of
burglarious chloroform. But, first," dropping into the nearest chair,
and assuming a tragic tone, "Let me peruse the letter of my beloved
Sybil."

She broke the seal of the dainty envelope, to find that it enclosed
another and still smaller one; and on this she read:

Constance, if I did not trust you so fully, I would not dare risk
this: Do not open this envelope until sunset of to-morrow
(Saturday); the contents will enlighten you as to my reasons for
this strangeness _then_.

There was no signature, but the handwriting of Sybil Lamotte was too
familiar to be mistaken. And, Constance Wardour sat silent and
motionless, gazing at the little envelope with such a look of intense
gravity upon her face as had not r