in the financial proposition he made; he was generous, as he always had
been, but his determination was inflexible; the two must separate. And
they did.

With his old partner's desertion, it seemed to Burwell that the world
was leagued against him. It was only three weeks from the day on which
he had received the mysterious card; yet in that time he had lost all
that he valued in the world,--wife, friends, and business. What next to
do with the fatal card was the sickening problem that now possessed him.

He dared not show it; yet he dared not destroy it. He loathed it; yet he
could not let it go from his possession. Upon returning to his house he
locked the accursed thing away in his safe as if it had been a package
of dynamite or a bottle of deadly poison. Yet not a day passed that he
did not open the drawer where the thing was kept and scan with loathing
the mysterious purple scrawl.

In desperation he finally made up his mind to take up the study of the
language in which the hateful thing was written. And still he dreaded
the approach of the day when he should decipher its awful meaning.

One afternoon, less than a week after his arrival in New York, as he was
crossing Twenty-third Street on the way to his French teacher, he saw a
carriage rolling up Broadway. In the carriage was a face that caught his
attention like a flash. As he looked again he recognized the woman who
had been the cause of his undoing. Instantly he sprang into another cab
and ordered the driver to follow after. He found the house where she was
living. He called there several times; but always received the same
reply, that she was too much engaged to see anyone. Next he was told
that she was ill, and on the following day the servant said she was much
worse. Three physicians had been summoned in consultation. He sought out
one of these and told him it was a matter of life or death that he see
this woman. The doctor was a kindly man and promised to assist him.
Through his influence, it came about that on that very night Burwell
stood by the bedside of this mysterious woman. She was beautiful still,
though her face was worn with illness.

"Do you recognize me?" he asked tremblingly, as he leaned over the bed,
clutching in one hand an envelope containing the mysterious card. "Do
you remember seeing me at the _Folies Bergere_ a month ago?"

"Yes," she murmured, after a moment's study of his face; and he noted
with relief that she spoke English.