ion which it is sometimes impossible to explain.

An idea which came into my mind in the night increased the storm within
me. I imagined that the wretch who had made suit to both Marcia and
Sylvia was Walkirk. He knew a good deal about these women; sometimes I
was surprised to discover how much he knew. Perhaps now, acting in a
base disguise, he was endeavoring to make of me a stepping-stone to his
ultimate success with one or the other. Hound! I would crush him!

My thoughts ran rapidly backward. I remembered how zealous he had been
in following Miss Raynor's yacht. He had told me of his conversations
with Sylvia, but what reason had I to believe he spoke the truth? That
any man should have loved these two women filled me with rage. That that
man should be Walkirk was an insupportable thought. I was not only
jealous but I felt myself the victim of a treacherous insult.

It was seven o'clock when I reached Washington, but, although I had
arrived at my destination, I could give no thought to the object of my
journey until I had discovered the truth about Walkirk. That was
all-important.

But of whom should I inquire? I could think of no one but Miss Laniston.
I had been a fool not to ask her the name of the man when I was with
her. But I would telegraph to her now, and ask for it. She might be
asleep at that hour, but I believed she was a woman who would awake and
answer my question and then go to sleep again.

I immediately went to the telegraph office, and sent this message: "What
is the name of the man of whom we spoke last evening? It is necessary
that I know it. Please answer at once." She would understand this. We
had spoken of but one man.

For nearly an hour I walked the floor and tossed over the morning
papers, and then came the answer to my message. It was this: "Brownson.
He is dead."

There is a quality in the air of Washington which is always delightful
to me, but I think it has never affected me as it did that morning. As I
breathed it, it exhilarated me; it cheered and elated me; it rose-tinted
my emotions; it gave me an appetite for my breakfast; it made me feel
ready for any enterprise.

As soon as I thought it proper to make a morning call I went to number
906 Alaska Avenue. There I found a large and handsome house, of that
independent and highly commendable style of architecture which
characterizes many of the houses of Washington. I had not yet made up my
mind whether I should inquire for Mot