"Then you will no longer be faithful to me—you will transact no more business for me," Mrs. Montague asserted, with angry brow and compressed lips.
"Very well, if that is your decision I must submit to it," was the imperturbable response. "And now, madame, I ask you, once for all, to tell me the name of the man whom Mona Forester married?"
"I will not."
"Then let me tell you what conclusion I have drawn from what I have learned during this interview," said Mr. Corbin, as he leaned forward and looked straight into the woman's flashing eyes. "You have said you hated her because she ruined your life—because she loved the man you loved. You have refused to tell me the name of that man. You can have but one reason in thus withholding this information—that motive is fear; therefore, I infer that Mona Forester was the first wife of your husband—her child was your husband's daughter."
"Prove it, then!" cried his companion, with a scornful, though nervous, laugh. "Find the marriage certificate—find the witnesses who saw them married, the clergyman who performed the ceremony, the church register where their names are recorded, if you can."
"I believe they will be found in good time," confidently asserted Mr. Corbin, as he arose the second time to leave; "and, madame, if such proofs are found do you comprehend what the result will be? Not only will Mona Forester's child inherit the fortune left by Homer Forester, but also the bulk of your deceased husband's property."
"Never! for no one in this world can prove that Mona Forester was ever legally married, and—I defy you to do your worst," hoarsely cried Mrs. Montague, with lips that were almost livid, while she trembled visibly with mingled excitement, fear, and anger.
But the gentleman had no desire to discuss the matter further. He simply bade her a courteous good-evening, and then quietly left the house.
"It is the strangest affair that I ever had anything to do with," he muttered, as he walked briskly down the street. "The girl's story must be true, for it tallies exactly with the woman's admissions this evening. There must be proof somewhere, too. Can it be possible," he went on, with a start, "that they are in Mrs. Montague's hands? If so, she is liable to destroy them, and thus plunge my pretty little client into endless trouble. It is strange that her uncle, Dinsmore, could not have been more sensible and left some definite information regarding the child. But I am going to do my best for her, and though I never had quite so mysterious a case before, I believe the very obscurity which invests it only adds interest to it."
Mrs. Montague was in a terrible passion after her lawyer had left. She sprang to her feet and paced the floor from end to end, with angry steps, her face almost convulsed with malice and hatred.
"Can it be possible that I am going to have that battle to fight over again, after all these years?" she muttered; "that the child is going to rise up to avenge the wrongs of her mother? What if she does? Why need I fear her? I have held my own so far, and I will make a tough fight to do so in the future. Possession is said to be nine points in law and I shall hold on to my money like grim death. I never could—I never will give up these luxuries," she cried, sweeping a covetous glance around the exquisitely furnished room. "I plotted for them—I sold my soul for them and him, now they are mine—mine, and no one shall take them from me! Mona Forester, how I hated you!—how I hate your daughter, even though I have never seen her!—how I almost hate that girl up stairs for her strange resemblance to you. I would have sent her out of the house long ago for it, if she had not been so good and faithful a seamstress, and needful to me in many ways. She, herself, saw the resemblance to that picture—By the way," she interposed, with a start, "I wonder if she obeyed me about that crayon the other day! If she didn't—if she kept it I shall be tempted to believe—I'll find out, anyhow."
With a somewhat anxious look on her face, the woman hurried up stairs to her room.
Upon reaching it she rang an imperative peal upon her bell.
Mary presently made her appearance, and one quick glance told her that something had gone wrong with her mistress.
"Bring me a pitcher of ice-water," curtly commanded Mrs. Montague. "And,
Mary—"
"Yes, marm."
"Did Miss Richards give you a torn picture the other day?"
"Yes, marm," answered the girl, flushing, "she said you wanted it burned."
"Did you burn it?"
"N-o, marm, somehow I couldn't make up my mind to put it in the fire; it was such a pretty face, and so like Miss Richards, and I've been wanting a picture of her ever since she came here, only I thought maybe she'd resent it if I asked her for one; and so I pasted it together as well as I could, and tacked it up in my room," the girl explained, volubly, and concluded by meekly adding: "I hope there was no harm in it, marm."
"You may bring it to me," was all the reply that Mrs. Montague vouchsafed her attendant; and Mary, looking rather crestfallen, withdrew to obey the command.
"It is a shame to burn it," she muttered, as she took down the defaced picture, and slowly returned down stairs; "but I'm glad Miss Ruth gave it to me before she asked for it."
Mrs. Montague sprang up the moment the girl entered the room, and snatching the portrait from her hands, dashed it upon the bed of glowing coals in the grate.
"When I give an order I want it obeyed," she said, imperiously. "Now go and bring me the water."
Mary withdrew again, wondering what could have happened to make her mistress so out of sorts, and finally came to the conclusion that the lawyer must have brought her bad news.
"There! that is the last of that!" Mrs. Montague said, as she watched the flames curl about the beautiful face in the grate. "I'm glad the girl didn't keep the picture herself; I believe that all my previous suspicions would have been aroused if she had. It can't be that she is Mona's child, for she has always been so indifferent when I have questioned her. Possibly she may be a descendant of some other branch of the family, and does not know it. My only regret is that I did not try to see that other girl before Walter Dinsmore died; then I should have been sure. I wonder where she can be? And to think that Mona Forester should have had an uncle to turn up just at this time! I didn't suppose she had a relative in the world besides the child."
Her musings were cut short at this point by the return of Mary with the water. She poured out a glassful for her mistress, and then was told that she might go.
The lady set down the glass without even tasting its contents; then rising, went to the door and locked it, after which she walked to a small table which stood in a bay-window, and removed the marble top, carefully laying it upon the floor.
This act revealed instead of the usual skeleton stand where a marble top is used a polished table of solid cherry, with what appeared to be a lid in the top, and in which there was a small brass-bound key-hole.
Drawing a bunch of keys from her pocket, Mrs. Montague selected a tiny one from among the others, inserted it in the lock, and the next moment the lid in the table was lifted, thus revealing a secret compartment underneath.
This was filled with various things—paper boxes, packages of various forms and sizes, together with some documents and letters.
Drawing a chair before the table, the woman sat down and began to examine the letters.
There was an intensely bitter expression on her face—a frown on her brow, a sneer on her lips—which so disfigured it that scarcely any one would have recognized her as the brilliant and beautiful woman of the world who so charmed every one in society.
There were perhaps a dozen letters in the package which she took out of the table, and these, as she untied the ribbon that bound them together, and slipped them through her fingers, were all addressed in a delicate and beautiful style of penmanship.
She snatched one from the others, and passionately tore it across, envelope and all. Then she suddenly dropped them on her lap, a shiver running over her, her cheek paling with some inward emotion.
"Ugh! they give me a ghostly feeling! My flesh creeps! I feel almost as if Mona Forester herself were standing beside me, and had laid her dead hand upon me. I cannot look them over—I will tie them up again and burn them all at once," she muttered, in a hoarse tone.
She gathered them up, and hastily wound the ribbon about them, laying them upon the table beside her, then proceeded with her examination of the other contents of the secret compartment.
CHAPTER V.
MONA DECLINES A PROPOSAL.
Mrs. Montague next took a square pasteboard box from the secret compartment in the table, and opened it.
On a bed of pure white cotton there lay some exquisite jewelry. A pearl and diamond cross, a pair of unusually large whole pearls for the ears, and two narrow but costly bands for the wrists, set with the same precious gems.
"Pearls!" sneered the woman, giving the box, with its contents, an angry shake. "He used to call her his 'pearl,' and so, forsooth, he had to represent his estimate of her in some tangible form. There is nothing of the pearl-like nature about me," she continued, with a short, bitter laugh. "I am more like the cold, glittering diamond, and give me pure crystallized carbon every time in preference to any other gem. He wasn't niggardly with her on that score, either," she concluded, lifting the upper layer of cotton, and revealing several diamond ornaments beneath.
"She was a proud little thing, though," she mused, after gazing upon them in silence for a moment, "to go off and leave all these trinkets behind her. I'd have taken them with me and made the most of them. They haven't done me much good, however, since they came into my possession. I never could wear them without feeling as I did just now about the letters. I might have sold them, I suppose, and I don't know why I haven't done so, unless it is because they are all marked."
She covered them and threw the box from her with a passionate gesture, and then searched for a moment in silence among the remaining contents of the table.
She finally found what she wanted, apparently, for a look of triumph swept over her face.
It was a folded document, evidently of parchment.
"Ha, ha! prove your shrewd inferences, my keen-witted lawyer, if you can," she muttered, exultantly, as she unfolded it, and ran her eyes over it. "Mona Forester's child the heir to the bulk of my husband's property, indeed! Perhaps, but she will have to prove it before she can get it. How fortunate that I helped myself to these precious keepsakes when he was off his guard; even he did not dream that I had this," and she shook the parchment until it rattled noisily through the room; then refolding it, she put it carelessly aside, and turned once more to what remained to be examined.
"Here is that exquisite point-lace fan," she said, lifting a long, narrow box, and removing the lid. "I never had a point-lace fan until I bought it for myself; and here is that picture; I never had his likeness painted on ivory and set in a frame of rubies! Ha! Miss Mona, you were a favored wench, but your triumph was of short duration."
It is impossible to convey any idea of the bitterness of the woman's tone, or the vindictiveness of her look, as she took from a velvet case the picture of a handsome young man, of perhaps twenty-five years, painted on ivory, and encircled with a costly frame of gold set with rubies.
"You loved her," she cried, fiercely, as she gazed with all her soul in her eyes upon that attractive face, while her whole frame shook with emotion. "Nothing was too costly or elegant for your petted darling; her slightest wish was your law, while for me you had scarcely a word or a look of affection; you were like ice upon which not even the lava-tide of my idolatry could make the slightest impression. Is it any wonder that I hated her for having absorbed all that I craved? Is it strange that I exulted when they drove her from her apartments in Paris, believing her to be a thing too vile to be tolerated by respectable people. Well, she had his love, but I had him—I vowed that I would win, and—I did."
But, evidently, the memory of her triumph was not a very comforting one, for she suddenly dropped her face upon the hands that still clasped the picture, and burst into a torrent of tears, while deep sobs shook her frame, and she seemed utterly overwhelmed by the tempest of her grief.
Surely in this woman's nature there were depths which no one, who had seen her the center of attraction in the thronged and brilliant drawing-rooms in high-life, would have believed possible to her.
Suddenly, in the midst of this unusual outburst, there came a knock upon the door.
The sound seemed to give her a terrible start in her nervous state.
She half sprang from her chair, a look of guilt and fear sweeping over her flushed and tear-stained face, the table before her gave a sudden lurch, and before she could put out her hand to save it, it went over and fell to the floor with a crash, spilling its contents, and snapping the lid to the secret compartment short off at its hinges.
"What is it?—who is there?" Mrs. Montague demanded, as she went toward the door, while she tried to control her trembling voice to speak naturally.
"What has happened?—I thought I heard a fall," came the response in the anxious tones of Mona's voice.
"Nothing very serious has happened," returned Mrs. Montague, frowning, for the girl, who so closely resembled the rival she hated, coming to her just at that moment, irritated her exceedingly. "I simply upset something just as you knocked. What do you want?"
"I only came to ask if I should finish your tea-gown in the morning, or do the mending, as usual;" Mona replied.
"Finish the tea-gown. I shall need it for the afternoon."
"Very well; I am sorry if I disturbed you, Mrs. Montague. Good-night," and Mona turned away from the door wondering what could have caused such a clatter within the woman's room.
Mrs. Montague went back to the bay-window, righted the table, rearranged its contents, and fitted the broken lid over them with hands that still trembled with her recent excitement.
"What a pity that the lid is broken," she muttered, impatiently, "for now it will do no good to lock it. I cannot help it, however, and perhaps no one will suspect that there is a secret compartment beneath the slab."
She carefully replaced the heavy marble, moved the table to its usual position, and then, worn out with the conflict she had experienced, retired for the night.
But she did not sleep well; she was nervous, and tossed uneasily upon her bed until far into the small hours of the morning, when she finally dropped into a fitful slumber.
She was aroused from this about eight o'clock the following day by Mary, who came as usual to bring her a cup of coffee, which she always drank before rising. There also lay upon the tray a yellow official-looking envelope.
"What is this?" Mrs. Montague demanded, as she seized it and regarded it with some anxiety.
"A telegram, marm. A messenger brought it just as I was coming up stairs," the girl replied.
Her mistress tore it open and devoured its contents with one sweeping glance.
Instantly her face flushed a deep crimson, and she crushed the message hastily within her hand, while she began to drink her coffee, but seemed to become deeply absorbed in her own thoughts while doing so.
A few moments later she arose and dressed herself rapidly, but all the time appeared preoccupied and troubled about something.
"I believe I shall let Louis marry her if he wants to. I could settle the hundred thousand on him, and stipulate that they go West, or somewhere out of the State, to live. I believe I'll do it," she murmured once, while thus engaged, "that is, if—"
She did not finish the sentence, but, with a resolute step and air, went down to her breakfast.
She had no appetite, however, and after dallying at the table for half an hour or so, she went up stairs again and entered the sewing-room.
She found Mona busy at work upon the tea-gown—a beautiful robe of old-rose cashmere, made up with a lighter shade of heavy armure silk.
"Can you finish it in season?" she inquired.
"Oh, yes, easily. I have about an hour's more work to do upon it," the young girl answered.
"That is well, for I want you to go down town to do some shopping for me. I cannot attend to it, as I wish to keep fresh for my high-tea this afternoon," Mrs. Montague returned, flushing slightly. Then she added: "I will make out a list of what I need, and you may go as soon as the dress is done."
Mona was pleased with the commission, for the morning was lovely, and she had felt unusually weak and weary ever since rising. The close application to which she had been subjected since her return from Hazeldean—for she had been hurried with spring sewing—had worn upon her.
A feeling of discouragement had also taken possession of her, for she seemed no nearer learning the truth about her mother than when she had first come there.
She was confident that Mrs. Montague had been her father's second wife, and she fully believed that she must have in her possession papers, letters, or some other documents that would reveal all that she wished to know regarding Richmond Montague's first marriage, and give her some information regarding the great sorrow that had so blighted the life of his beautiful young wife.
She had promised that she would give herself to Ray at the end of three months; he still held her to that promise, and six weeks of the time had already elapsed, and she seemed to be no nearer the attainment of her desires than when she had made it.
True, she had found the picture of her mother, and learned that her name was Mona Forester. She had also discovered that a relative had been seeking for her with the desire of leaving her all that he possessed.
But all this was very unsatisfactory, for she had not gained the slightest clew by which to prove herself to be the child of Mona Forester, or any one else.
It was all a wearisome and harrowing tangle, and it wore both upon her spirits and her strength.
It was true, too, that she had found Ray, and learned that he loved her. This was a great comfort, and she knew she had but to tell him that she was ready to go to him, and he would at once make her his wife; but—a flush of shame flooded her face every time she thought of it—she was continually haunted by the fear that her mother might never have been Richmond Montague's wife—that possibly she might have no legal right to the name she bore, in spite of her uncle's assurance to the contrary, and she shrank from marrying Ray if any such stigma rested upon her.
She had never breathed these fears to him—she kept hoping that some accident, or some remark from Mrs. Montague, would throw light on the perplexing mystery.
But Mrs. Montague never referred in any way to her past life in her presence. She had never once mentioned her husband, and, of course, Mona had not dared to ask her any questions upon these subjects.
"I can never marry Ray until I know," she had told herself over and over in great distress, "for I love him too well ever to bring any blight upon his life."
She had had a dim hope that Mr. Corbin might in some way manage to unravel the mystery, and yet she could not see that he had anything more tangible to work upon than she herself had.
Mona finished the dress and carried it to Mrs. Montague, who seemed very much pleased with it.
"You are a lovely seamstress, Ruth, and a good, faithful girl," she said, as she carefully examined the neatly made garment. "But for one thing," she added, as she covertly searched the girl's fair face, "I believe I should grow really fond of you."
This remark put Mona on her guard in a moment, though it also set her heart to beating with a vague hope.
"Thank you for your praise of my work, Mrs. Montague," she quietly said, "but," lifting a wondering glance to her face, "what is the one thing that I lack to win your esteem? If I am at fault in any way I should be glad to know and correct it."
"You lack nothing. It is because you so much resemble a person whom I used to detest—I am unaccountably antagonized by it," said the woman, frowning, for the clear eyes, looking so frankly into hers, were wondrously like Mona Forester's.
"Oh, I suppose you refer to the person whose picture I found up stairs a while ago," said Mona.
"Yes," and Mrs. Montague looked slightly ashamed of her confession; "I imagine you think I am somewhat unjust to allow my prejudice to extend to you on that account, and I know I am; but the power of association is very strong, and I did hate that girl with all my heart."
Mona was trying to acquire courage to ask what reason she could have for hating any one who looked so gentle and inoffensive, when the woman resumed, with some embarrassment:
"Louis scolded me for the feeling when I mentioned it to him—he is not tainted in any such way, I assure you. Do you know, Ruth," with a little laugh of assumed amusement, "that he is very fond of you?"
Mona's face was all ablaze in an instant—her eyes likewise, although she was greatly surprised to learn that the young man had betrayed his liking for her to his aunt.
"I trust that Mr. Hamblin has not led you to believe that I have ever encouraged any such feeling on his part," she coldly remarked.
"I know that you have been very modest and judicious, Ruth; but what if I should tell you that the knowledge of his preference does not displease me; that, on the whole, I rather approve of his regard for you?" questioned Mrs. Montague, observing her closely.
"From what you told me a moment ago, I should suppose you would feel anything but approval," Mona replied, without being able to conceal her scorn of this sanction to Louis Hamblin's presumption.
"What do you mean?" demanded her companion, with some sharpness.
"I refer to the prejudice which you confessed to entertaining against me."
"But did I not acknowledge that it was unjust? And when one confesses wrong and is willing to correct it, credit should not be withheld," Mrs. Montague retorted, with some warmth. "But seriously, Ruth," she continued, with considerable eagerness, "Louis is very much in earnest about this matter. He has dutifully asked my permission to address you, and I believe it would be for his happiness and interest to have a good wife, such as I am confident you would make. I know that he has betrayed something of this feeling to you, or I should not presume to speak to you about it; but my reason for so doing is that I thought perhaps you might feel more free to accept his suit if you knew that I approved of the union."
Mona was trembling now with mingled excitement and indignation. Excitement over the discovery that Louis Hamblin had really been in earnest when he had made love to her at Hazeldean, and indignation that he should still presume to think that she would marry him after the decided rebuff she had given him at that time. She was also astonished that Mrs. Montague should propose such a thing after what she had said, on the night of the ball, about her "angling for Ray Palmer, and imagining herself to be his equal in any respect."
Then she grew very pale with a sudden suspicion. Perhaps Mrs. Montague had discovered who she was, possibly Mr. Corbin had been to her to question her, and had aroused her suspicions that she was Mona Montague, and she was plotting to marry her to her nephew in order to keep her fortune in the family, and thus tie Mona's hands to render her incapable of mischief.
These thoughts inspired her with fresh hope and courage, for she told herself that if this was the woman's object, there must be some proofs in existence that her mother's marriage with Richmond Montague had been legal.
But Mrs. Montague was waiting for some answer, and she could not stop to consider these points very fully now.
"I thank you," she said, trying hard to curb the scorn that was surging fiercely within her, "but I shall be obliged to decline a union with Mr. Hamblin—I could never become his wife."
"Why not, pray?" sharply demanded her companion.
"Because I believe that marriage should never be contracted without mutual love, and I do not love Mr. Hamblin," Mona returned, with cold positiveness.
"Really?" Mrs. Montague sneered, with a frowning brow, "one would suppose that a person in your position—a poor seamstress—would be only too glad to marry a handsome young man with Louis' prospects—for he will eventually inherit my fortune if he out-lives me."
"Then, perhaps, it will be a surprise to you to learn that there is one poor seamstress in the world who does not regard marriage with a rich young man as the most desirable end to be achieved in life," Mona responded, with quiet sarcasm.
Mrs. Montague grew crimson with anger.
"Then you would not marry my nephew if he should offer himself to you?" she indignantly inquired.
"No, madame; I could not. With all due appreciation of the honor intended me, I should be obliged to decline it."
The girl spoke with the utmost respect and courtesy, yet there was a slight inflection upon certain words which irritated Mrs. Montague almost beyond endurance.
"Perhaps you are already in love with some one else—perhaps you imagine that you may win young Palmer, upon whom you so indelicately forced your society at Hazeldean," she snapped.
Mona could not quite conceal all emotion at this unexpected attack, and a lovely color stole into her cheeks, at which the watchful woman opposite her was quick to draw her own conclusions, even though the fair girl made no reply to her rude speech.
"Let me disabuse your mind at once of any such hopes and aspirations," Mrs. Montague continued, with increased asperity, "for they will never be realized, since Ray Palmer is already engaged."
This statement was made upon the strength of what she had learned from Mr. Palmer regarding Ray's affection for Mr. Dinsmore's niece, and his own approval of the union if the young lady could be found.
Poor Mona's powers of endurance were tried to the utmost by this thrust, and she longed to proclaim, there and then, that she knew it—that she was the young man's promised wife.
But the time for such an avowal was not yet ripe; a few weeks longer, if she could have patience, and then she hoped there would be no occasion for further secrecy.
She put a strong curb upon herself, and simply bowed to show that she had heard and understood Mrs. Montague's statement.
The effort, however, drove every atom of color from her face, and seeing this, Mrs. Montague believed that she had planted a sharp thorn in her bosom.
She did not wish to antagonize her, however, and she was almost sorry that she had said so much; but she was a creature of impulse when her will was thwarted, and did not always stop to choose her words.
She had, for certain reasons, yielded her objections to Louis marrying her, and now this unexpected opposition on Mona's part only served to make her determined to carry the point, for the sake of conquering her, if for no other.
"Well, we will not quarrel over the matter, Ruth," she said, in a conciliatory tone. "Of course I have no right to coerce you in such a matter, and you are too useful to me to be driven away by contesting the point. So we will drop the subject; and now if you will take this memorandum and go about the shopping I shall be obliged to you. I shall need all my strength for this evening, because I am to have a large company to entertain, and—"
She abruptly paused, and seemed a trifle confused for a moment. Then she asked, with unusual consideration:
"Shall I send you in the carriage?"
"No, I should prefer to take a car down town and then walk about to the different stores. I sit so much I shall be glad of the exercise," Mona replied, as she turned to leave the room, but wondering what Mrs. Montague had been going to add when she stopped so suddenly.
CHAPTER VI.
RAY MAKES AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.
Mona hastened to her own chamber, after leaving Mrs. Montague, where she hastily exchanged her house dress for a street costume, and then started out upon her errands.
She had a great deal to think of in connection with her recent conversation with Mrs. Montague, but, although much had been said that had annoyed her greatly, on the whole she had been inspired with fresh hope that the mystery enshrouding her mother's life would eventually be solved.
She therefore quickly recovered her spirits, and her face was bright and animated as she tripped away to catch the car at the corner of the street.
She had several errands to do, and she very much enjoyed the freedom of running about to the different stores, to buy the pretty things regarding which Mrs. Montague had discovered she possessed excellent taste and judgment.
She had nearly completed her purchases—all but some lace, which that lady wished to add to the ravishing tea-gown which was to be worn that evening, and to get this she would have to pass Mr. Palmer's jewelry store.
Her heart beat fast as she drew near it, for she had been hoping all the way down town that she might see Ray and have a few minutes' chat with him.
She glanced in at the large show-window, as she went slowly by, and, fortunately, Ray was standing quite near, behind the counter, talking with a customer.
He caught sight of her instantly, but indicated it only by a quick flash of the eyes, and a grave bow, and quietly continued his conversation.
Mona knew, however, that having seen her, he would seek her at the earliest possible moment, and so slowly sauntered on, looking in at the different windows which she passed.
It was not long until she caught the sound of a quick step behind her, and the next moment a firm, strong hand clasped hers, while a pair of fond, true eyes looked the delight which her lover experienced at the unexpected meeting.
"My darling!—I was thinking of you the very moment you passed, and wishing that I could see you. I have something very important to tell you," he said, eagerly, but his fine face clouded as he uttered these last words.
"It is something that troubles you, I am sure, Ray," said Mona, who was quick to interpret his every expression.
"Yes, it is—I am free to confess," he admitted, then added: "Come in here with me—there will not be many people about at this hour—where we can talk more freely, and I will tell you all about it."
They were passing the Hoffman House at that moment, and the young man led the way inside the café.
They proceeded to a table in a quiet corner, where, behind some palms and tall ferns, they would not be likely to be observed, and then gave an order for a tempting lunch, the preparation of which would require some time.
While waiting for it, Ray confided his trouble to Mona.
"My father is really going to marry Mrs. Montague," was the somewhat abrupt communication which he made with pale lips and troubled brow.
"I have known it for some time, but did not like to speak of it to you,"
Mona quietly replied.
"You have known it for some time?" Ray exclaimed. "For how long, pray?"
"Ever since we were at Hazeldean."
"Impossible! for my father did not make his proposal until after our return to New York."
"But she certainly told me the night of the ball, when she came up stairs to retire, that she expected to marry Mr. Palmer," Mona returned, and flushing at the memory of that conversation, which, however, she had been too proud to repeat to her lover.
"Well, she may have expected to marry him, and I imagine that his own mind was pretty well made up at that time," said Ray, gloomily, "but the matter was not settled until after our return, as I said before, and the engagement is to be formally announced this afternoon at the high-tea given by Mrs. Montague."
Ah! this explained to Mona what had puzzled her just before leaving home—why Mrs. Montague had once or twice appeared embarrassed during their conversation, why she had abruptly paused in the midst of that last sentence, and why, too, she had been so unusually particular about her personal appearance for a home-reception.
She mentioned these circumstances to Ray, and asked, in conclusion, if he were also invited to the high-tea.
"Yes; but, really, I am so heart-sick over the affair I feel as if I cannot go. I am utterly at a loss to understand this strange infatuation," he continued, with a heavy sigh. "My father, until this meeting with Mrs. Montague, has been one of the most quiet and domestic of men. He went occasionally into society, but never remained late at any reception, and never bestowed especial attention upon any lady. He has been a dear lover of his home and his books. We have seldom entertained since my mother's death, except in an informal way, and he has always appeared to have a strong antipathy to gay society women."
"How strange! for Mrs. Montague is an exaggerated type of such a woman; her life is one continual round of excitement, pleasure, and fashion," Mona remarked, "and I am sure," she added, with a glance of sympathy at her lover's downcast face, "that Mr. Palmer would soon grow very weary of such an existence."
"I am certain of it, also," Ray answered, "and more than that, from what I have learned of the woman through you—of her character and disposition—I fear that my father is doomed to a wretched future, if he marries her."
"I have similar forebodings," Mona said, thoughtfully, as her mind recurred to the conversation of the morning. "How would it do for you to tell your father what you know? It might influence him, and I shall not mind having my secret revealed if he can be saved from future unhappiness."
"I fear it is too late for that now. He is so thoroughly infatuated and has committed himself so far, I doubt the wisdom of seeking to undeceive him," Ray responded, with a sigh. "What powers of fascination that woman has!" he exclaimed, with some excitement. "She charms every one, young and old. I myself experienced something of it until you opened my eyes to her real character."
"Such women are capable of doing a great deal of harm. Oh, Ray, I believe that society ruins a great many people. Perhaps it was well that my career in it was so suddenly terminated," Mona remarked, gravely.
Ray smiled fondly down upon her.
"I do not believe it could ever have harmed you very much," he said, tenderly; "but I believe very many young people are unfitted for the higher duties of life where they give themselves up to society to such an extent as they do here in New York; it is such a shallow, unreal kind of life. We will be social—you and I, Mona, when we make a home for ourselves; we will be truly hospitable and entertain our friends for the good that we can get and give, but not merely for the sake of show and of being 'in the swim.'"
The smile and look which concluded these observations brought the quick blood to the cheeks of the fair girl, and made another pair of eyes, which were peering at them through the palms and ferns, flash with malicious anger and jealousy.
"I have so few friends now, Ray, I fear we shall not have many to entertain," Mona replied, a little sadly.
"I do not believe you know how many you really have, dear. You disappeared from social life so suddenly, leaving everybody in the dark regarding your whereabouts, that very few had an opportunity to prove their friendship," Ray said, soothingly. "However," he added, his fine lips curling a trifle, "we shall know how to treat those who have met and ignored you. But have you heard anything from Mr. Corbin since I saw you last?"
"No, and I fear that I shall not," Mona replied, with a sigh. "I do not see any possible way by which he can prove my identity. As you know, I have not a single item of reliable evidence in my possession, although I firmly believe that such evidence exists, and is at this moment in Mrs. Montague's keeping."
She then related how her suspicions had been freshly aroused by the conversation of that morning, and Ray was considerably excited over the matter.
"Why did you not tell me before that Louis Hamblin made himself obnoxious to you at Hazeldean?" he questioned, flushing with indignation, for Mona had also told him of her interview with the young man in the library, in connection with the story of Mrs. Montague's more recent proposal to her.
"Because I believed that I had myself thoroughly extinguished him," Mona answered, smiling; "and besides," she continued, with a modest blush, "I believe that no true, considerate woman will ever mention her rejection of a suitor to a third party, if she can avoid doing so."
Ray gave her an admiring glance.
"I wish there were more women in the world of the same mind," he said. "But mind, dear, I will not have you annoyed about the matter further. If, after what you have told Mrs. Montague to-day, young Hamblin should presume to renew the subject again, you are to tell me and I will deal with him as he deserves. It certainly is rather suspicious her wanting you to become his wife. Why, it is in everybody's mouth that she has been trying for months to make a match between him and Kitty McKenzie," he concluded, thoughtfully.
"Kitty McKenzie is far too good a girl for such a fate; but I am afraid she is really quite fond of him," said Mona, with a regretful sigh. "But shall you come up to Forty-ninth street this afternoon, Ray?"
"I suppose I must, or people will talk," he replied, dejectedly. "If my father is determined to marry the woman it will create gossip, I suppose, if I appear to discountenance it; so all that remains for me to do is to put the best possible face upon the matter and treat my future step-mother with becoming deference."
"What do you suppose she will say when she learns the truth about us?" Mona inquired, with an amused smile. "I imagine there will be something of a breeze about my ears, for she informed me this morning that I need have no hopes or aspirations regarding you upon the strength of any attention that you bestowed upon me at Hazeldean, for—you were already engaged," and a little ripple of merry laughter concluded the sentence.
Ray smiled, delighted to see the sunshine upon his dear one's face, and to hear that musical sound. Yet he remarked, with some sternness:
"I think she is overstepping her jurisdiction to meddle in your affairs to such an extent. But here comes our lunch," he interposed, as the waiter appeared, bearing a well laden tray of tempting viands.
"Then let us drop all unpleasant topics, and give ourselves up to the enjoyment of it," said Mona, looking up brightly. "A light heart and a mind at ease greatly aid digestion, you know."
She would not allow him to refer to anything of a disagreeable nature after that, but strove, in her bright, sweet way, to banish the cloud from his face, and succeeded so well that before their meal was ended they had both apparently forgotten Louis Hamblin and his aunt, and the unsuitable engagement about to be announced, and were only conscious that they were there together, and all in all to each other.
But time was flying, and Mona knew that she must get back to assist Mrs.
Montague with her toilet for the high-tea.
"It was very nice of you, Ray, to bring me here for this delightful lunch," she said, as they arose from the table, with a regretful sigh that they must separate, and began to draw on her gloves.
"We shall take all our lunches together before long, I hope, my darling," he whispered, fondly; "half the stipulated time is gone, Mona, and I shall certainly claim you at the end of another six weeks."
Mona flushed, but she did not reply, and her heart grew heavy, for she knew she should not be willing to become Ray's wife until she could prove the circumstances of her birth.
She longed to tell him how she felt about it—she longed to know how he would feel toward her if they should discover that any stain rested upon her.
But she dare not broach the subject—a feeling of shame and humiliation kept her silent, and she resolved to wait and hope until the six weeks should pass.
They went out together, but still followed by that pair of malignant eyes, which had, however, been cautiously veiled, as was also the face in which they were set.
Ray walked with his betrothed to a corner, where he helped her aboard a car, and then returned to his store.
Later, on that same day, a gay company of gentlemen and ladies filled Mrs. Montague's spacious and elegant rooms, where she, in her elaborate and becoming costume, entertained in her most charming manner.
Mr. Palmer had come very early and secured a private interview, previous to the arrival of the other guests, and it was noticeable that, as the lady received, a new and magnificent solitaire gleamed upon the third finger of her left hand.
People surmised, very generally, what this meant, even before it was whispered throughout the rooms that the engagement of Mr. Palmer and the beautiful widow was formally announced. It was not very much of a surprise, either, as such an event had been predicted for some time.
Ray did not arrive until late, for he had little heart for the gay scene, and less sympathy in its object. But for his respect and love for his father, he would not have set foot in the house at all.
"Gentlemen's dressing-room on the left of the hall above," said the polite colored man, who attended the door, and Ray slowly mounted the stairs, hoping that he might catch a glimpse, if not secure an opportunity for a word with Mona.
But there was no such treat in store for him, for she was at that moment assisting Mary, who had met with a mishap in running up stairs, having stepped upon her dress and torn it badly.
Ray found the room indicated, which proved to be Mrs. Montague's boudoir, deposited his hat, gloves, and cane where he could conveniently get them again—for he did not intend to remain long—and then descended to the drawing-room.
He made his way at once to where Mrs. Montague was standing with her captive beside her, for he desired to get through with the disagreeable duty of offering congratulations, with all possible dispatch.
Poor Mr. Palmer! Ray pitied him, in spite of his aversion to the engagement, for he looked heated and flushed, and somewhat sheepish as his son approached, although he tried to smile and look happy, as if he enjoyed the glitter and show and confusion reigning all about him.
Ray politely shook hands with his hostess, making some general remark upon the occasion and the brilliant assembly, as he did so.
"And—I hope I am to have your congratulations." Mrs. Montague archly remarked, as she glanced from him to his father.
"You certainly can have no doubt that I sincerely hope the arrangement may be for your mutual happiness," the young man gravely replied, as he bowed before them both.
"Then show yourself a dutiful son by drinking a cup of tea with me," laughingly returned the lady, as she slipped her white hand within his arm, and led him toward the great silver urn, where several charming "buds" were dispensing the fragrant beverage to the numerous guests.
Ray had no alternative, and he well knew that the wily widow had adroitly taken this way to make it appear to her guests that the son heartily approved his father's choice.
She possessed infinite tact, and chatted away in the most brilliant manner, making him wait upon her so assiduously that Ray was sure, from the looks of those about them, that every one was admiring his devotion(?) to his future step-mother.
She released him at last, however, and returned to her position beside his father, and watching his opportunity he stole unobserved from the room, and up stairs, intending to get away from the house as soon as possible.
Reaching Mrs. Montague's boudoir, he walked to the bay-window, and looked out upon the street. He was nervous and excited, and wished to regain his accustomed composure before going down stairs again.
He stood there a moment absorbed in unpleasant reflections, then turned to get his coat and hat.
As he did so, one of his feet caught in the heavy damask draperies, and in trying to disengage it, something crackled sharply beneath it, and he stooped to ascertain what it was.
Sweeping aside the heavy curtains, he saw a long, narrow document lying upon the floor beneath its folds.
He picked it up, and saw that it was a piece of parchment with something apparently printed upon it.
Not supposing it to be anything of importance, he mechanically unfolded it and began to read.
"Why, it is a marriage certificate!" he exclaimed, in surprise, under his breath.
Not caring to read the whole form, he simply glanced at the places where the names of the contracting parties were written, and instantly a mighty shock seemed to shake him from head to foot.
"Ha! what can this mean?" he exclaimed, in a breathless voice.
His face grew deathly pale. A blur came before his eyes. He rubbed them to dispel it, and looked again.
"It cannot be possible!" he said, in a hoarse whisper, and actually panting as if he had been running hard. "I cannot believe my sight, and yet it is here in black and white! and Mona—Mona, my darling! the mystery will be solved, and you will be righted at last."
The certificate, as will be readily surmised, was the very one which Mrs.
Montague had examined the previous evening.
When Mona had knocked upon the door, it will be remembered that she was greatly startled and had upset the table. The accident had caused the certificate to be thrown upon the floor, with the other things, and by some means it was pushed beneath the heavy damask curtain and had escaped Mrs. Montague's eye and memory, when she hastily gathered up the scattered treasures and rearranged them in the secret compartment of the table.
Thus it had come into Ray's possession just at a time when it was most needed and desired.
Regaining his composure somewhat, he read it carefully through from beginning to end.
"How could it have come to be in such a strange place, and to fall into my hands?" he said, the look of wonder still on his face. "She—that woman must have had it in her possession, even as Mona suspected, and by some mistake or oversight dropped and forgot it. Shall I tell her I have found it? Shall I return it and then demand it from her?" he questioned, his innate sense of honor recoiling from everything that seemed dishonorable. "No," he continued, sternly, "it is not hers—she has no right whatever to it; it belongs to Mona alone, for it is the proof of her birthright. I will take it directly to Mr. Corbin, and I will not even tell Mona until I have first confided in him."
With a resolute purpose written on his fine face, Ray carefully put the document away in an inner pocket; then donning his coat and hat, quietly left the house.
The last postal delivery of that same evening brought to Mrs. Richmond
Montague the following anonymous letter:
"MADAME:—The girl in your employ, who calls herself Ruth Richards, is not what she pretends to be. Her true name is Mona Montague, and she is compromising herself by secret meetings with a gentleman in high life. She lunched this morning at the Hoffman House Cafe with Mr. Raymond Palmer, the son of a worthy gentleman whom you intend to marry. You perhaps will best know whether she has any hidden purpose in figuring as a seamstress, and under the name of Ruth Richards, in your house."
Unfortunately for our young lovers, Miss Josephine Holt had also been taking an early lunch in the Hoffman House Cafe that morning, and had seen Ray and Mona the moment they had entered.
Ever since she had discovered Mona at Hazeldean she had been trying to think of some way by which she could separate them, and now, knowing that Mrs. Montague was bent upon marrying Mr. Palmer, and feeling sure that there was some secret which Mona wished to preserve by becoming a seamstress in the woman's house under an assumed name, she believed she could the best achieve her purpose by disclosing her identity and setting Mrs. Montague against her. How well she succeeded will be seen later on.
CHAPTER VII.
MONA MAKES A SURPRISING DISCOVERY.
It was now the third week in April, and the season was unusually early. The grass had become quite green, the trees were putting forth their leaves, and the weather was very warm for the time of the year.
On the morning after the high-tea and the announcement of the engagement, Mrs. Montague sought Mona and informed her that a party of friends had arranged for a pleasure trip through the South and down the Mississippi, and asked her if she would accompany her, since Louis had business to attend to, and could not act as her escort.
Mona did not exactly like to go, but there was really no good reason why she should refuse; the rush of sewing was nearly over, and if she were left behind, she would have to be idle the greater portion of the time; besides, she had worked very steadily, and she knew that she needed rest and relaxation.
She inquired how long Mrs. Montague intended to be gone, and the lady replied that she expected to return within two weeks.
"Of course you can please yourself about the matter, Ruth," she remarked. "I suppose I could take Mary, but she is not companionable—she would not appreciate the journey, and I really wish you would go. I should regard it as quite a favor," the woman concluded, appealingly.
If Mona had been more observing, she might have seen that she was being closely watched, and that her answer was anxiously awaited. Mona considered the subject a few moments before replying. Her greatest objection was leaving Ray for so long—two weeks would seem almost interminable without seeing him.
But, on the other hand, perhaps while in such close companionship with Mrs. Montague as there would have to be on such a journey, something might be dropped about her former life which would enlighten her regarding what she was so eager to ascertain. It would be a delightful trip, too, and Mona knew that she should enjoy seeing the country, as she had never been South.
"When do you start?" she inquired, before committing herself.
"I want to get off in the evening express," Mrs. Montague returned, watching every expression of the young girl's face.
"In this evening's express?" asked Mona, in surprise.
"Yes. It is short notice, I know," the woman said, smiling; "but I, myself, only knew of the plan yesterday, and, as you know, I was too busy to make any arrangements for it. Will you go, Ruth? We have nothing to do but to pack our trunks."
"I suppose there is no reason why I should not," the young girl returned, musingly, while she told herself that she could send a note to Ray, informing him of her intention. She was not quite sure that he would approve of it, and she wished that she could have known of it the previous day, so that she could have consulted him.
"That is nice of you," Mrs. Montague quickly responded, and assuming that her remark was intended as an assent to the trip; "and now we must at once go about our preparations. How long will it take you to pack?"
"Not long," Mona answered; "I have only my dresses to fold, and my toilet articles to gather up. I have not really unpacked since I came here," she said, smiling; "for I have needed so few things."
"Well, then, get yourself ready; then you may come to help me," Mrs. Montague said, as she arose to go to her own room, and breathing a sigh of relief that this vital point had been gained with so little trouble.
Mona was as expeditious as possible, but, somehow, now that she had given her consent to go, her heart grew unaccountably heavy, and she began to feel a deep aversion to leaving New York.
She wrote a hasty note to Ray, telling him of the intended journey, and how she regretted not being able to consult him, but could not, under the circumstances. She also wrote, as she did not know the route they were to take, she could not tell him where to address her, but would write to him again when she learned where they were to be.
Then she packed what she thought she would need to take with her, after which she went to assist Mrs. Montague. She found that she had been very expeditious, for she had one trunk already packed and locked, ready to be strapped, and was busily engaged filling another.
Their arrangements were all made and they were ready to start by the time dinner was served, and this meal Mrs. Montague insisted they should eat together, as they must leave immediately afterward.
She was very chatty and agreeable, treating Mona more as an equal than she had ever done before. She seemed in excellent spirits, and talked so gayly and enthusiastically about the trip that the young girl really began to anticipate it with considerable pleasure.
Mary and the cook were to have a holiday during their absence; the house was to be closed, and the coachman alone would remain about the premises to look after the horses and see that nothing happened to the place.
At seven o'clock they left the house, and an hour later were seated in a luxurious Wagner, and rolling rapidly Southward.
They arrived in St. Louis on the morning of the second day, and drove directly to the Southern Hotel, where Mrs. Montague said they would remain for a day or two, to rest, and where the friends who were going down the Mississippi to New Orleans with them would join them.
The following morning Mrs. Montague dressed herself with great care, and told Mona that she was going out to make some calls, adding that she might amuse herself as she chose, for there was nothing to be done, and she might get lonely to remain alone in the hotel.
The young girl resolved to improve the opportunity and look about the city a little on her own account.
She donned her hat and jacket, and running down to the street, hailed the first car that came along, with the intention of riding as far as it would take her.
She changed her purpose, however, as the car was about passing a street leading down to the great bridge across the Mississippi.
She had heard and read a great deal about the grand structure, and she determined to walk across and see how it would compare with the wonderful Brooklyn Bridge.
She was feeling very well, the morning was bright, and she enjoyed her walk immensely. By the time she returned her cheeks were like wild roses, and her whole face glowing from exercise.
She was a little weary, however, and glad to get seated again in a car going back toward her hotel.
The car had proceeded only about half a block, however, when it stopped again, and two people, a man and a woman, stepped aboard, and seated themselves next to her.
They seemed to be absorbed in earnest conversation, and did not appear to notice any one about them.
The woman was an elderly person, rather fine looking, with a good figure, and an erect, graceful bearing. Her hair was almost white, and there were deep wrinkles in her forehead, at the corners of her eyes, and about her mouth, although they were somewhat concealed, or softened, by the thickly spotted black lace veil which she wore; but on the whole she was an agreeable looking person, and her manner was full of energy and vitality.
Her companion was a rather rough-appearing personage and dressed like a Western farmer or miner, rather coarsely handsome, and with an easy, off-hand manner that was quite attractive, and he might have been thirty or thirty-five years of age.
"What a dark skin—what black hair and beard, with blue eyes!" was Mona's mental comment, as she observed this peculiarity about him. He also had very white teeth, which contrasted strikingly with the intense blackness of his mustache and beard.
He appeared to be quite disturbed about something, and talked to his companion rapidly and excitedly, but in low tones.
"You were very imprudent to try to dispose of so many at one place," Mona overheard his companion say, in reply to some observation which he had previously made, and then a great shock went tingling through all her nerves as her glance fell upon the dress which the woman wore.
It was a fine, heavy ladies' cloth, of a delicate shade of gray—just the color, Mona was confident, of that tiny piece of goods which Ray had shown her at Hazeldean, and which had been torn from the dress of the woman who had trapped him into Doctor Wesselhoff's residence, and stolen his diamonds.
She was very much excited for a few moments, and her heart beat with rapid throbs.
Could it be possible that this woman had been concerned in that robbery?
That woman had had red hair, and according to Ray's description, was much younger; but she might possibly be the other one, who had made arrangements with the physician for Ray's treatment. At all events, Mona was impressed that she had found the dress in which the fascinating Mrs. Vanderbeck had figured so conspicuously.
Her face flushed, her fingers tingled with the rapid coursing of her blood, and she felt as if she could hardly wait until the woman should rise, so that she might look for a place that had been mended in the skirt of her dress.
She resolved that she would ride as long as they remained in the car, and when they left it, she would follow them to ascertain their stopping place.
She could not catch anything more that they said, although she strained her ears to do so.
Those few words which she had overheard had also aroused her suspicions—"you were very imprudent to try to dispose of so many in one place," the woman had said, and Mona believed she had referred to diamonds; her vivid imagination pictured these people as belonging to the gang of robbers who had been concerned in the Palmer robbery, and now that the excitement attending it had somewhat subsided, they had doubtless come to St. Louis to dispose of their booty; while it was the strangest thing in the world, she thought, that she should have happened to run across them in the way she had.
They were drawing very near the Southern Hotel, where Mona and Mrs. Montague were stopping; but the excited girl resolved that she would not get out—she would ride hours rather than lose sight of these two strangers, and the chance to ascertain if that gray cloth dress was mended—"on the back of the skirt, near the right side, among the heavy folds." Ray had told her that was where the tear was.
But what if she should find it there? What should she do about the matter? were questions which arose at this point to trouble her. What could she, a weak girl, do to cause the arrest of the thieves? how was she to prove them guilty?
At that moment the man signaled the conductor to stop the car, and Mona's heart leaped into her throat, for they were exactly opposite her own hotel.
The couple arose to leave the car, and Mona slowly followed them.
As the woman was about to step to the ground she gathered up her skirts with her right hand, to prevent them from sweeping the steps of the car, and Mona looked with eager eyes, but she could detect no mended rent.
She kept a little behind them as they crossed the sidewalk and made straight for the entrance of the hotel, when, as they were mounting the steps, the woman suddenly tripped and almost fell.
In the act, her skirts were drawn closely about her, and Mona distinctly saw a place, where the plaits or folds were laid deeply over one another, that had been mended, and not nicely, either, but hastily sewed together on the wrong side. It would hardly have been noticed, however, unless one had been looking for it as Mona was, because it lay so deeply in among the folds.
The couple entered the hotel, and both gave Mona a quick, sharp glance as she followed; but she quietly passed them with averted eyes, and went into a reception-room on the left of the hall.
"Go and register, Jake, and I will wait here for you," Mona heard the woman say, and the man immediately disappeared within the clerk's office opposite, while his companion walked slowly back and forth in the hall.
Presently the man rejoined her, remarking:
"It's all right; they had a room next yours which they could give me.
Come," and both passed directly up stairs.
Mona waited a few minutes, to be sure they were well out of the way, then she quietly slipped across the hall to the office.
"Will you allow me to look at the register?" she asked of the gentlemanly clerk.
"Certainly," and with a bow and smile he placed it conveniently for her.
She thanked him, and glanced eagerly at the last name written on the page.
"J.R. Walton, Sydney, Australia," she read, in a coarse, irregular hand, as if the person writing it had been unaccustomed to the use of the pen.
Running her eye up the page, Mona also read, as if the name had been signed earlier in the day:
"Mrs. J.M. Walton, Brownsville, Mo."
"It would appear," mused Mona, as she left the office, "as if they are mother and son—that he had just returned from far Australia, and she had come here to meet him. But—I don't believe it! Walton—Walton! Where have I heard that name before?"
She could not place it, but she was so sure that these people were in some way connected with the Palmer robbery, she was determined to make an effort to establish the fact, and immediately leaving the hotel again, she sought the nearest telegraph office, and sent the following message to Ray:
"Send immediately piece of the ladies' cloth torn from dress."
This done she retraced her steps, and went directly up to her own room.
She found that Mrs. Montague had returned from making her calls, and was dressing for dinner.
She seemed a little disturbed about something, and finally it came out that the trip down the Mississippi would have to be delayed for a day or two longer than she had anticipated, as one of her friends was not quite well enough to start immediately.
Mona was very glad to learn this, for she was sure that she should hear from Ray and receive the piece of dress goods; her only fear was that the Waltons might not remain at the hotel long enough for her to find an opportunity to fit the piece into the rent, to ascertain if it belonged there.
The earnestly desired letter reached her the next evening. Ray had been very expeditious. Receiving Mona's dispatch just before the southward mail closed, he had hastily inclosed the piece of cloth, with a few words, in an envelope, and so there was no delay.
She was certain, as she examined it, that it was exactly the same color as the dress she had seen the day before, and reasonably sure regarding the texture; but the great question now to be answered was: Would it fit the rent?
"Now I must find the dress, if possible, when the woman is wearing something else," Mona mused, with a troubled face, and beginning to think she had undertaken a matter too difficult to be carried out. "Perhaps she has no other dress here; how, then, am I going to prove my suspicion true, or otherwise?"
She knew that she could go to the authorities, tell her story, and have the woman and dress forcibly examined; but she could not bear to do anything that would make herself conspicuous, and it would be very disagreeable to carry the affair so far and then find she had made a lamentable mistake.
"If Ray were only here he would know what to do," she murmured, "but he isn't, and I must do the best I can without him. I must find out where the woman rooms. I must examine that dress!"
Fortune favored her in an unexpected way the very next morning.
The chambermaid who had charge of the floor on which their rooms were located, came, as usual, to put them in order, but with a badly swollen face, around which she had bound a handkerchief.