thing else.

"Well," she said, in a cold and bitter tone, "it seems that I've lost
the game. Amen. Perhaps it's just as well. And so you're alive, after
all, are you, Zillah, and not in the sea? Gual tier, then, deceived
me. That also is, after all, just as well."

"Wretched woman," said Lord Chetwynde, solemnly, "Gualtier did not
deceive you. He did his work. It was I who saved her from death. In
any case, you have the stain of murder on your soul."

"Perhaps I have, my lord," said Hilda, coolly, "and other stains
also, all of which make it highly inappropriate for me to be your
wife. You will, however, have no objection to my congratulating you
on the charming being you have gained, and to whom you have addressed
such very passionate vows."

"This woman," said Lord Chetwynde, "hardly deserves to be treated
with ordinary civility. At any rate, she is not fit for _you_," he
added, in a low voice, to Zillah; "and you are too agitated for
further excitement. Shall I lead you away?"

"Not yet," said Zillah, "till I have asked one question. Hilda
Krieff," she continued, "answer me one thing, and answer me truly.
What was it that made you seek my death? Will you answer?"

"With pleasure," said Hilda, mockingly. "Because I hated you."

"Hated me!"

"Yes, hated you always, intensely, bitterly, passionately."

"And why? What had I ever done?"

"Nothing. The reason of my hate was in other things. I will tell you.
Because I was your father's daughter, and you supplanted me."

"You! Impossible!"

"I will tell you. In my childhood he was fond of me. I was taken to
India at an early age. After you were born he forgot all about me.
Once I was playing, and he talked to me with his old affection. I had
a locket around my neck with this name on it--'_Hilda Pomeroy_.' He
happened to look at it, and read the name. 'Ah,' said he, 'that is a
better name than Hilda Krieff. My child, I wish you could wear that
name.' I wanted him to tell me what he meant, but he wouldn't. At
another time he spoke of you as being my 'little sister.' He
frequently called me daughter. At last I found some old papers of my
mother's, when I saw that her name was Hilda Pomeroy, and then I
understood it all. She was his first wife, though I believe now that
they were not married. He, of course, deceived her, and though she
thought she was his wife, yet her child could not take his name. I
asked him this, but he refused to explain, and warned me never