"About Miss Madeline, I suppose you mean. I won't tell you a word—"

"My dear, good woman, I don't ask nor wish any information regarding that young lady—my inquiries solely concern the father. He is said to be wealthy!"

"What is John Arthur or his money to you?" she questioned, eying him with much disfavor.

"Nothing whatever," he indifferently replied. "I merely inquire on behalf of a friend."

"I'll throw him off the scent if he does mean Madeline," thought the old woman.[37]

[37]

"Well, Mr. whatever your name is, if it will satisfy your friend to know that Mr. John Arthur is master of Oakley, and everybody knows there's no finer property in the State, and that he has a yearly income of ten thousand or more, why, tell him or her so. And you may as well say, at the same time, that he is too stingy and mean to keep the one in repair, or spend decently the other. And when he dies"—here she suddenly checked herself—"well, when he dies, his heirs, whoever they may be, will inherit all the more because of his meanness."

"And who, pray, may be his heirs?"

"How should I know who a stingy old reprobate will choose to inherit after him? I think he has a sister somewhere, but I don't know."

"H'm, thank you—for my friend. Good-night."

Smiling that same Mephistophelian smile, Lucian Davlin sauntered away, apparently satisfied with himself and what was passing in his mind.

"He'll do," he muttered; "and she'll do him. It will be a good thing for her, just now, and very convenient for me into the bargain. Cora's a marvellously fine woman, but little Madeline is fresh as a rose, and a few months of the city will make her sharp enough. Only let me keep them apart; that's all." Satisfaction beamed in his eye and smiled on his lip. "Pretty Madeline will be the envy of half the boulevard."

Now he has neared the trysting tree. "I think I'll just smoke here, and wait for my pretty bird; this is the place and almost the time."

He smoked and he waited; the time came, and passed; his cigar expired; the shadows deepened—but still he waited.

And he waited in vain. No light form advanced through, the gathering night; no sweet voice greeted him.[38]

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