Wayne's Faithful Sweetheart: The Lost Novels Of Nellie Bly, #5

By Nellie Bly, Robert Kauzlaric and David Blixt

"The Most Enchanting, Fascinating And Marvelous Love-Story Ever Written!"

So declared the front page of the New York Family Story Paper as it launched the fifth serialized novel by pioneering undercover journalist Nellie Bly. Rightly famous for exposing society's ills, from brutal insane asylums to corrupt politicians, she used the pages of the New York World to bring down all manner of frauds, cheats, and charlatans. 

What no one knows is that Nellie Bly was also a novelist. Because, of the twelve novels Bly wrote between 1889 and 1895, eleven have been lost - until now! Newly discovered by author David Blixt (What Girls Are Good For, The Master Of Verona), Nellie Bly's lost works of fiction are available for the first time! These are The Lost Novels of Nellie Bly!

Dorette Lover is an artist's model! Having secured employment at last, the beautiful Dorette is in high spirits now that she can support herself and her poor old, blind mother. But no sooner has she she accepted the modeling job for the famous painter Herman Van Dyke than she witnesses a terrible crime—a dead body, with a bloodied man standing over the corpse. Yet she feels certain the man is innocent of murder. As the only witness against him, she promises that she will never testify. In desperation he answers that she will have no choice, unless she becomes—his wife!

So Dorette Lover weds Wayne Webb, scion to an old family and fabulous wealth. Her mother vanished, Dorette has no choice but to join high society, enduring the snubs of the elite. But when Wayne is cleared of the murder charge, Dorette's misery is compounded. It was not she who saved Wayne, but the beautiful Cora Woodworth, Wayne's beloved, and now Dorette's rival for his love.

Unbeknownst to them all, a pair of villains vie for control of Cora's wealth and Dorette's secret inheritance. The two women form an unlikely bond, as they both struggle to remain . . .Wayne's Faithful Sweetheart!

Bonus feature: This volume includes Bly's New York World articles that inspired her novels!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sordelet Ink
• Release date: Mar 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781944540760

Nellie Bly

Nellie Bly (1864-1922) was an American investigative journalist. Born Elizabeth Jane Cochran in a suburb of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, she was raised in a family of Irish immigrants. In 1879, she attended Indiana Normal School for a year before returning to Pittsburgh, where she began writing anonymously for the Pittsburgh Dispatch. Impressed by her work, the newspaper’s editor offered her a full-time job. Writing under the pseudonym of Nellie Bly, she produced a series of groundbreaking investigative pieces on women factory workers before traveling to Mexico as a foreign correspondent, which led her to report on the arrest of a prominent Mexican journalist and dissident. Returning to America under threat of arrest, she soon left the Pittsburgh Dispatch to undertake a dangerous investigative assignment for Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World on the Women’s Lunatic Asylum on Blackwell’s Island. After feigning a bout of psychosis in order to get admitted, she spent ten days at the asylum witnessing widespread abuse and neglect. Her two-part series in the New York World later became the book Ten Days in a Mad-House (1887), earning Bly her reputation as a pioneering reporter and leading to widespread reform. The following year, Bly took an assignment aimed at recreating the journey described in Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (1873). Boarding a steamer in Hoboken, she began a seventy-two day trip around the globe, setting off a popular trend that would be emulated by countless adventurers over the next several decades. After publishing her book on the journey, Around the World in Seventy-Two Days (1890), Bly married manufacturer Robert Seaman, whose death in 1904 left Bly in charge of the Iron Clad Manufacturing Co. Despite Bly’s best efforts as a manager and inventor, her tenure ultimately resulted in the company’s bankruptcy. In the final years of her life, she continued working as a reporter covering World War I and the women’s suffrage movement, cementing her legacy as a groundbreaking and ambitious figure in American journalism.

Book preview

Wayne’s Faithful Sweetheart

or

The Artist’s Beautiful Model

The Most Enchanting, Fascinating, and Marvelous Love-Story Ever Written.

I - A Mother’s Secret—And A Young Girl’s Grief.

She was very young, exquisitely beautiful, and delicately refined—the last girl in the world one would expect to find starving in a little bare room on the top floor of a noisy tenement. Nevertheless, she had lived there for years, silent and unobtrusive, knowing nothing of her neighbors, and being regarded by them as a poor, stuck-up thing, who thinks she’s better than other people, because she has a pretty face.

When her mother moved there she was very young. They had been able to rent the first floor then, and she remembered she had a little sister to play with, and that her mother never permitted them to associate with the other children about the house.

When she grew older she often thought of the day her mother locked her alone in the room and went away with a strange man.

She remembered how frightened she was, and how she trembled at the least sound, fearing every moment the door would open and a big bogeyman would spring in and carry her away off where she would never see her dear mamma anymore. She had cried softly to herself, and her big, startled eyes watched the dark shadows creep into the room, until her baby heart stood still with terror. When she could no longer see, she buried her little frightened face in the cushion of a chair and sobbed herself to sleep.

Her mother’s touch awakened her. She was no longer alone in the dark.

The lamp had been lighted, and by its rays she saw her mother’s eyes were red from weeping, and her face was very grave and sad. Clinging to her mother’s dress was a little girl about her own size and age, who had large, frightened black eyes, and short yellow, silky curls.

Her mother, seeing she was awake, drew the strange child forward, saying to her own daughter:

Come here, dear. I have brought you a little sister. Kiss her, and tell her you will love her, for she is as desolate as we are.

She was never lonely after that. When her mother went to bring or return the sewing, by which she earned their scant living, there was always the new sister to stay with her.

And she loved her dearly. She always gave her the larger portion of bread and milk, or the bigger slice of apple, and when the strange child became angry and pulled her hair and hit her, she always forced back her tears and never resented the unkindness.

And so they lived for some years; her sad, melancholy mother, toiling all the day and away into the night to gain enough for them to live on. She remembered how pale and sad her dear, patient mother always was, and how the tears used to roll over her cheeks, and fall upon her sewing.

Very well did she recall the day a man in fine clothes and a tall, shining hat came to see her mother. They talked long and earnestly, and the stranger called the sisters to him and patted her on her sunny head and took her sister on his lap.

When he went away, her mother clasped her sister passionately to her breast and covered her little wondering face with loving kisses.

An indefinite fear was paining her own heart, and the next morning when her mother hired a little girl to take her to the park, she cried bitterly to have her little sister go along.

Could she ever forget the misery and desolation that swept over her on her return? Her little sister was gone! Her mother was alone! Her face bore the traces of bitter tears!

And to all her hungry cries her mother would only say that the little sister had been taken away.

She soon perceived her mother was averse to talking about the absence of the child; so she kept her longing and grief to herself, and since she had grown to girl’s estate, she never broached the subject.

But she had never forgotten. After her mother got past working, and the burden of support rested upon the sweet, fair girl, she wondered wearily if she would never find her dear, dear sister again.

And this girl now stood face to face with starvation.

The house that had given her sewing to do had suspended, and although she had walked the streets for three weeks, almost begging for employment, she could find none. The last penny was gone and she had been without food for twenty-four hours. True, there was still a dry crust in the cupboard, and a wee bit of tea, but she could not touch it. It was all that remained for the poor, helpless mother.

As she stood at the little grim window, looking up at the leaden sky, she was an object well worth studying: the sweetest, loveliest being that ever drew the breath of life.

Supple and slender, with the very essence of girlish grace, her little head was carried with a dignity that would have been a credit to a queen. Her hair, as soft as spun silk, and as pure yellow as the sunlight, fell in rich masses below her round waist. Her eyes were like velvet pansies, shaded by the blackest and longest lashes that ever delighted the soul of a beauty. Her eyebrows matched her lashes and were as perfect as though an artist had painted them on her smooth, alabaster brow. No rosebud was ever as red as her pouting lips, no pearl as perfect as the little teeth behind them. When she smiled, which she did very seldom now, bewitching dimples dented her velvety checks, which bore the faintest blush of color.

No one could have seen her babyish hands and dainty feet without vowing that the oldest and bluest blood coursed in her veins. But here she stood clad in the cheapest of garments and surrounded by unmistakable evidences of biting poverty.

Her great pansy-blue eyes filled with tears every time she glanced toward the rickety bed on which lay the wasted form of her mother.

Hastily brushing away the tears that would come, and choking back the dry sob that filled her throat, she tiptoed across the bare floor to the side of the bed. Holding her breath lest she disturb the motionless sleeper, she gazed long and anxiously on the wasted, colorless face.

How still and lifeless she looked! What great dark rings encircled her sunken eyes! How ghastly those white lips looked parted over the yellow teeth! How white her hair had turned!

My God! To see her dear mother so and to be powerless to help her. She could remember when she looked like herself, only sadder and older.

A nameless fear crept into her soul and—with a suppressed sob—she sunk on her knees by the side of the bed. Clasping her little trembling hands, she raised them in piteous supplication.

Oh, my God, have mercy on me, she prayed beseechingly, spare her—do not take her from me. She is all I have, all I love; oh, I beg of Thee, for the love of heaven, spare her to me. If I have sinned, punish me in any way, I shall not murmur; but as Thou art merciful and just, let me keep my dear mother. Give her health and strength and subject me to the bitterest trials on earth, I shall not complain as long as I have her. I do not cry against my poverty, I do not reproach Thee for my lot in life, I only beg and pray and beseech Thee not to take from me all I love and have and live for. If Thou art merciful—if Thou hast pity—hear and pity me.

Darling, a soft voice called gently, and she rose to her feet, pale and trembling from the strength of her prayer.

Yes, dear mother, she answered tenderly. I am so thankful you slept well; it is so long since you did.

What is wrong, my child? Have you been crying? the mother asked anxiously, stretching forth her hand in an uncertain, groping way, that told the sad tale—she was blind.

Maybe a little, mother dear, she answered lightly, clasping the thin hand that was hunting for hers, and resting her hot temples for a moment against the sunken cheek on her pillow. Now I must hurry and make your tea. You must have quite an appetite from sleeping so long.

I am not hungry, child. I have been feasting in my dreams and I feel satisfied, she sighed deeply.

But you must drink your tea, dearest, and I shall place your luncheon handy, for I am going out again to make another effort, she said brightly, and she bustled about making the tea and bringing it and the dry bread to her mother’s side.

I am sure good fortune will befall you to-day, observed her mother, with another sigh. I had such a strange dream, and it has left me very happy. I thought I was in a beautiful palace, and your father was with me. I was young and happy and well, and he was as handsome and loving as when we were first married. And you were there, dear, and your father was so proud of your beauty. But while we were eating, I saw a change come over your father’s face, and when I asked him what was wrong, he replied, ‘Nothing but what would be righted in the end.’

The blind woman paused with a heavy sigh, and then continued:

In a moment everything became confused, and I lost both you and your father. When I saw you again you were struggling with two men and a woman—a dark, beautiful woman, that I felt I knew, although I could not tell how. A man, young and handsome, came while I was vainly trying to move, and took you in his arms, and the woman tried to pull him away from you, while the men were watching with long daggers in their hands. I knew they were waiting to kill you, and I tried to scream, to warn you of your danger, for you only saw the man who held you in his arms, when your father’s voice in my ear said soothingly, ‘Be of good cheer—I promise you all will come right,’ and then I seemed to float peacefully away.

Mother, why would you never mention my father to me? What did he do? the daughter asked eagerly.

Her mother’s lips trembled, and the lids closed over the blind eyes, as if she would shut out the eager questioner.

He did us the bitterest wrong a man can do, was the sharp answer.

Will you not tell me what it was?

Do not ask me. Oh, my darling, my heart has been bleeding in silence for many years, the mother cried plaintively. You were but a year old when your father left me—seventeen years ago to-day, dearest. Ah, it seems an eternity! I never saw him again. He broke my heart, and I have never felt that I could forgive him until now. My dream killed all my bitter feelings toward him.

Is he still living? the girl asked thoughtfully.

No, dear. A few months after our separation he died, was the answer.

And my sister? asked Dorette agitatedly.

You have no sister, her mother replied nervously, her voice sounding hoarse and unnatural. The child you know as your sister passed out of our lives forever years ago. Forget her, for she is the same as dead to us.

Dorette Lover bowed her head wearily against the bed. Her heart sunk like lead in her breast, and her mother’s words killed the hope she had secretly cherished for years—that she would one day be reunited with the sister she had loved so well.

But mother—dear mother, forgive me—but my sister’s name was the same as mine. Who was she, then, if not my own dear sister?

Darling, some day you shall know the whole dreadful truth—if you wish it. I have kept it from you, I have tried to blot it out of my own memory; but the effort has ruined my life.

The startled look in Dorette’s large blue eyes showed that some consciousness, some sting of the mother’s bitter secret, was slowly planting itself in the breast of the beautiful girl. Mother, it is right I should know all, she said bravely. Let me share the secret with you and comfort you.

Not now, my child, not now. It will blast your young life. Listen, poor, unfortunate one: when I die—when I have passed forever out of your life—go to the corner cupboard, lift the loose board, and underneath you will find papers which will tell you the whole dreadful story.

Dorette began to realize the tale her mother had hidden from her was most terrible indeed. She half regretted she had insisted on being told, still she felt it was right that she should know the secret that tinged her life.

If anything should happen to me, her mother continued, take those papers I have hidden, and if you still want to know the secret of our lives—if you feel you can learn it and live—read them. Now, my child, let us talk of other things. You are going out again in search of employment?

In the newspaper I picked up on the street last night, Dorette answered with an effort, I found an advertisement for an artist’s model—a girl, young and fair, was required—and I thought I would answer it. Do you think I might stand any chance? The girl raised her great pansy eyes to her mother’s white face as if imploring encouragement.

Poor Dorette! How many times she had tried without success.

I hope you may be fortunate, her mother replied. I am sure you will, she added quickly.

Oh, do you think so, dearest mother? she cried joyously, rushing to get her hat. I am sure God will not forget us, aren’t you?

The mother smiled sadly, and when the girl kissed her goodbye, she lovingly caressed her yellow, sun-lit hair.

Don’t be lonely; I’ll hasten back to tell you good news, I am sure, she said cheerily, and with a tender kiss she was gone.

Good news! Little either of them dreamed of the strange news Dorette Lover would have to tell her on return.

II - The Mother’s Prophecy Comes True.

The look of anguish in Dorette Lover’s large blue eyes as she went forth from her mother showed she realized her dreadful position in its full force.

There was only one chance between her and starvation. If she secured the position, she could buy food for her mother and herself. If not—there was nothing for them but to starve together.

Dorette was faint from the lack of nourishment, and the distance to the artist’s studio seemed long and endless. Still, the very hopelessness of her situation made her press on when her trembling limbs almost refused to carry her. The misery in her luminous, pansy-blue eyes was almost drowned in the tears that blinded her.

As she walked wearily along the public thoroughfare, many persons were startled by the glimpse they caught of her wonderful beauty, and the anguish in her face. Some turned for a second look, and more than one would have offered her charity, noting the poorness of her apparel, had not an indefinable something in her walk and the poise of her sunny head warned them not to.

But Dorette needed no one. She walked toward her destination in deep thought.

She knew a penniless girl’s chances of success in the great city were very small. She had been tossed mercilessly about by the waves of circumstances ever since she had been old enough to work; she had been a prey to poverty and despair ever since her dear mother had been stricken by blindness.

I am so friendless and alone, she murmured piteously to herself. Before, I cheered myself with sweet dreams of someday finding my father and sister and having them to help and comfort me, but now—my mother tells me my father is dead and that I have no sister.

At last she reached the tall bachelor apartment, on the top floor of which the artist had his studio.

She hesitated as she stood before the door, her heart beating thickly. She wondered vaguely if they would permit such a poor-looking creature as herself to enter such an imposing building.

A wave of sensitive color crossed the whiteness of her face as she entered the elevator, and bashfully uttered the artist’s name—Herman van Dyke—to the boy in charge.

He stared at Dorette curiously, but evinced no hesitancy about taking her up. Still, she felt very uncomfortable under his scrutinizing and mocking eyes, and she took a long breath of intense relief when the elevator door banged behind her.

When she stood alone on the landing before the door bearing Herman van Dyke’s card, she felt a new surprise at her own rashness in answering the advertisement. She was an artist’s model! What had she to offer in such a capacity?

Dorette’s thoughts were in this confused state, and she was on the verge of rushing away, when the studio door opened and a beautiful woman stepped out, bidding adieu to the gentleman who held the door for her.

The gentleman looked surprised when he caught a glimpse of the girl near his door shrinking timidly back out of sight, her beautiful, big eyes filling with dismay. In all his life he thought he had never seen a face so strangely beautiful, so miserably unhappy.

I beg your pardon. Were you looking for anyone? he said politely.

I was looking for Mr. Van Dyke, the artist, was the faint reply, in the sweetest, softest voice he had ever heard.

I am he. Come in, please, was the quick and eager answer.

Herman van Dyke could only gaze at his young visitor with the eye of an artist, and drink in her fair beauty with avidity.

I read your advertisement, Dorette explained timidly, while resting in the chair he had pushed toward her. She felt like excusing herself for being so presumptuous as to think of answering it, but her pride would not permit her.

And you came to offer yourself as a model? he said, finishing it for her.

I would like if I answered for what you want, she continued bravely, her deep, anxious eyes looking entreatingly at the handsome artist.

In the name of all that is wonderful, how does this child with her exquisite face and heavenly hair and babyish hands, come to be in such poverty? the artist mused.

Are you alone in the world? he inquired, voicing his thoughts.

A wave of color tinted the pallor of Dorette’s face, and her great liquid eyes filled with pearly tears, as she answered chokingly, I have a mother. No one else.

What is your name, may I ask?

Dorette Lover.

A very pretty name but an unusual one, the artist said musingly. Dorette is French, I should say, while Lover is an English name. Were your parents English?

No, sir; Americans I think, at least I always supposed they were, Dorette said nervously, wishing he would talk about the subject of her visit.

Have you ever posed as a model? he asked, seeing she was disinclined to tell her history, which he was curious to hear.

No, sir, but if you think you might let me try, I am sure I will do my best to please you, was the anxious answer.

I wish you had come here a little sooner. I just engaged the lady you met at the door—

Dorette felt a despairing sob fill her throat; she dropped her eyes to hide her tears of hopeless disappointment, while she endeavored to master her feelings.

However, he continued, I luckily engaged her on a week’s trial. If you will come to me the first of next week, I shall be happy to employ you.

Dorette sunk her sharp pink nails into the tender flesh of her tiny hands to prevent her crying aloud for joy. At last, oh, heavenly Father, work at last! she breathed thankfully.

Herman van Dyke was startled at the look of radiant happiness which flashed into her blue eyes when she raised them, dewy wet from tears of joy, to his. He never forgot that look. The sudden transformation from hopeless despair to unutterable bliss brought a choking sensation into her throat.

I thank you very, very much, she said gratefully, trying so hard to master the sobs that threatened to burst forth.

Some inkling of her dire need and deep distress impressed the artist at her graceful words and looks. He got up hastily and nervously. He could not offer charity to this lovely creature, but he felt sure she needed immediate aid.

I want to be sure of your return and services, he observed pleasantly, so I shall give you ten dollars, and you can consider you are enjoying a vacation this week, the fore-runner to hard and steady work in my employ.

Dorette’s lips quivered like a baby’s. She longed to fall at his feet and bless him for his goodness, but she felt if she did she would break into wild, hysterical cries—cries of fear at the dark precipice of starvation on which she had stood for twenty-four hours, cries of joy that form out the darkness of her maddening misery she had been thrust into the blessed light of happiness.

Work! Work! Work! God was good to her; He had given her work, and she could live.

How many poor girls in New York City, like Dorette, travel through this valley of despair? No work—no money—no hope!

Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are? the artist resumed hurriedly, seeing her feelings were almost gaining the better of her. Without the least intention of flattering, I must say, I never beheld a more beautiful girl. I am sure you will help me to win laurels—to win fame.

I shall be so, so happy if I can ever repay your kindness, Dorette said thankfully, and she thought she had never seen a man so kind and handsome in all her life before.

When she held the crisp bank-note in her tiny pink palm, the smile that had been banished so long was evoked by her overflowing heart and dented her velvety cheeks. With her throbbing heart on her lips and her soul within her beautiful eyes, Dorette pressed a burning kiss of gratitude upon the artist’s hand, ere she rushed blindly from his presence.

While Herman van Dyke stood as if in a dream, gazing at the door through which Dorette had disappeared, some lines he had once read somewhere recurred to him, and he repeated softly:

Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shape, her features,

Seem to be drawn by Love’s own hand—by Love,

Himself in love.

III - The Wave Of Fate Sweeps Her On.

When Dorette rushed out of the studio, her eyes filled with happy tears and her lips still trembling from the grateful kiss she had pressed upon the artist’s hand, she felt a nervous repugnance creep over her. She felt she could not face the curious, smiling boy who had brought her up in the elevator. But how could she avoid him?

With a little cry of delight, she espied the winding marble stairway, and her tiny feet sped toward it. I shall walk down, and that boy will not see me, she said, as she tripped down the white stairs.

Her heart was beating wildly and her brain was in a perfect turmoil of delight. Her faintness, her hunger—all was forgotten, and she remembered nothing but the blessed news she was carrying back to the dear, blind mother. Money—food—work! Oh, how happy she was!

But an unseen hand was guiding her unconscious movements and carrying her on to the strangest fate that ever befell a woman.

The stairs were longer than Dorette had supposed, and after she had descended for some time she found herself growing slightly confused, and her weakened limbs giving out.

Pausing on a landing to rest for a brief moment, she heard a startling, heartrending cry.

It seemed to come from the apartment on the same landing, and as she raised her head to listen, Dorette saw that the door leading to the rooms was standing ajar. She looked, and through the opening saw a sight that froze the blood within her veins, filled her dark, velvety eyes with unspoken horror, stiffened her tongue with fear, and made her limbs tremble with sickening dread.

It was the most horrifying sight she had ever gazed upon.

Upon the floor lay a young man, silent and motionless, blood gushing from a ghastly wound in his throat and rapidly staining crimson the white bear-skin rug upon which he lay.

Kneeling by the inanimate figure, holding a red dripping knife in his blood-stained hands, was the handsomest young man Dorette had ever looked upon.

Dorette seemed to see and notice the slightest detail about him as she gazed horror-stricken upon the frightful scene. His handsome black eyes, riveted in terror and despair upon the bleeding body on the floor; his pallid face, but the whiter in contrast to his raven-black hair and mustache—as silky and perfect as any that ever was the pride of man; his elegant clothing, fitting his faultless form to perfection; his slender white hands, stained with blood, and still holding the bloody knife which had done the fatal deed.

It was a most cruel scene, and one that chained Dorette motionless with horror, making her brain whirl giddily, and her knees bend under her slight weight.

My God, he is dead! she heard the young man cry and some feeling within her made her think he was about to plunge the reeking knife into the pulseless heart.

Don’t strike again! Don’t you see you have killed him? she cried in a low, intense voice, pushing open the door, and springing in beside the stiffening body.

Had Dorette come down through the ceiling, the young man could not have been more surprised. He sprung to his feet with a cry of distress, still clutching the dripping knife, the sight of which made Dorette close her eyes and turn faint, leaning dizzily against an onyx pedestal for support.

Still the young man spoke no word. He gazed at Dorette’s wild eyes, so like, in color, the purple heart of a pansy, and his colorless lips parted as if to speak, but no sound issued forth.

So met these two, whose lives were to be so strangely crossed, who were to be bound together by as strange a romance as ever was written.

You accuse me—of murder! the young man faltered in a hoarse whisper.

A tall, heavily built man, who had, unseen, been listening at the open door, drew his head back quickly, and his ruddy, cruel face wore a look of fiendish glee.

Why did you do it? returned Dorette, facing him bravely, though her white lips trembled.

He stared at her dumbfounded, gazing at her with wide open, horrified eyes.

Despite the terrible deed, Dorette felt her gentle heart swell with sympathy for the wretched young man. She noticed that his eyes were filled with a wild glare, and a silent fear came into her breast that his dreadful crime had turned his brain.

The ruddy-faced man at the door also noted the mad gleam of despair, and it filled him with cruel gloating. I have you now, my fine fellow. Two rivals swept out of my path at a single blow! he hissed between his long, white, heavy teeth.

You are mistaken, the young man managed to say at last. My god! This is frightful. He was my friend, and I would not have harmed a hair on his head.

Dorette’s face brightened, and she was just about to assure the young man of her belief in his innocence, when the man who had watched the whole preceding from the hall stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.

He folded his arms slowly across his breast, looking meaningly from the bleeding corpse to the young man with the blood-red knife in his hands.

The latter returned his look with one less calm, but not less fearless.

I did not think you would let your quarrel result in—murder, the newcomer remarked hotly.

Murder? Have a care, Roderick Lyttleton, the young man exclaimed, taking a threatening stride toward the newcomer.

Roderick Lyttleton stretched out his arm toward the inanimate figure on the floor. Do not let your temper drive you on to another such deed to-day, he observed warningly.

By Heaven! You shall swallow your own words, for no one knows better than your own self the true friendship that existed between Ross Presston and me, the young man answered hotly.

And none knows better how you both loved the same girl—the beautiful Cora Woodworth—the wealthy heiress! And none knows better of the bitter quarrel you had about her, and of the threats of vengeance you made if your rival succeeded in gaining the beautiful heiress’s hand, sneered Roderick Lyttleton.

God knows I meant nothing by my hasty words, the young man said in a broken voice. "I loved Ross like a brother and I came here to-day to tell him we could act like men, and whichever was lucky enough to gain the hand of the woman we loved, would not lose the friendship of the other.

I came to tell him that— he added brokenly, and I found this.

A smile of unbelief rested for a moment upon Lyttleton’s thick lips, and his blue eyes held a gleam as cruel and pitiless as those of a savage. "Well, Webb, I am deuced sorry for you, old man. You know I always had a liking for you, and I want to be your