gain. For it might be a mistake. Some other wretched man
had striven to escape, and in the hurry and darkness had been mistaken
for her husband.

But hope came again directly, and while shuddering at the thoughts, she
recalled how explicit it had all been. There could be no mistake. She
was wife no longer--tied no more by those hated bonds to a wretched
adventurer--a forger--whose sole aim had been to get her father's
money--she was free, and Malcolm Stratton had told her--

She shuddered again at the horror of dwelling upon such thoughts at a
moment when her ears were stunned by the news of death; but the thoughts
were imperious. She had never loved this man, and the ceremony had only
been performed under misapprehension. Once more she was free--free to
follow the bent of her affections--free to give herself to the man she
knew she loved.

What had Malcolm Stratton said--what had he said?

A mist had been gathering about her mental vision, and she staggered
toward her bedside, once more to sink down and bury her burning face in
her hands, for her emotion was greater than she could bear.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

"SILENCE GIVES CONSENT."

"Oh, it's you two again, is it?" said Miss Jerrold, in a tone of voice
which might have been borrowed from her brother, as Stratton and Guest
were shown up into her pretty little drawing room, where she sat ready
to preside over her china tea tray with its quaint Sevres cups and
saucers and parcel gilt apostle spoons, while a tall stand was on her
left with its bronze kettle humming and whispering, and uttering a
pleasant coo now and then, as it felt the warm kisses of the spirit
lamp.

Stratton's brows contracted and a look of resentment darted from his
eyes as he stopped short, but Guest laughed and said airily:

"Yes; it is your humble servant once again."

"Well, and what do you want?"

"Hear that, Stratton?" said Guest. "A lady sends you her cards, `At
home, Thursday, four to six;' we go to the expense of new lavender
kids--no, come what may, I will be truthful, mine are only freshly
cleaned--and new hats--no, truth shall prevail! a gloss over from the
hatter's iron--drag ourselves all this way west to pay our devoirs--to
drink tea out of thimbles, and eat slices of butter thinly sprinkled
with bread crumbs, and the lady says, `What do you want?'"

"Of course I do. There, sit down, both of you, and, Malcolm Stratton,
don't put on that wicked, melodramatic fr