Chapter Four.

Chapter Four.Not Counting the Cost.The afternoon was damp, chilly, and cheerless as I stood at my window awaiting Aline. I had written to her, and after some days received a reply addressed from somewhere in South London declining to accept my invitation, but in response to a second and more pressing letter I had received a telegram, and now stood impatient for her coming.Outside, it was growing gloomy. Thematinéeat the Garrick Theatre was over, and the afternoon playgoers had all gone their various ways, while the long string of light carts belonging to thePall Mall Gazettestood opposite, ready to distribute the special edition of that journal in every part of London. The wind blew gustily, and the people passing were compelled to clutch their hats. Inside, however, a bright fire burned, and I had set my easiest chair ready for the reception of the dainty girl who held me beneath her spell.Even at that moment I recollected Muriel, but cast her out of my thoughts when I reflected upon Aline’s bewitching beauty.Moments passed as hours. In the darkening day I stood watching for her, but saw no sign, until I began to fear she would disappoint me. Indeed, the clock on the mantel-shelf, the little timepiece which I had carried on all my travels, had already struck five, whereas the hour she had appointed was half-past four.Suddenly, however, the door opening caused me to turn, and my pretty companion of that night was ushered in by Simes.“I’m late,” she said apologetically. “I trust you will forgive me.”“It is a lady’s privilege to be late,” I responded, taking her hand, and welcoming her gladly.She took the chair at my invitation, and I saw that she was dressed extremely plainly, wearing no ornaments. The dress was not the same she had worn when we had met, but another of more funereal aspect. Yet she was dainty and chic from her large black hat, which well suited her pale, innocent type of beauty, down to her tiny, patent-leather shoe. As she placed her foot out upon the footstool I did not fail to notice how neat was the ankle encased in its black silk stocking, or how small was the little pointed shoe.“Why did you ask me to come here?” she asked, with a slightly nervous laugh when, at my suggestion, she had drawn off her gloves.“Because I did not intend that we should drift apart altogether,” I answered. “If you had refused, I should have come to you.”“At Ellerdale Road?” she exclaimed in alarm.“Yes; why not? Is your aunt such a terrible person?”“No,” she exclaimed in all seriousness. “Promise me you will not seek me—never.”“I can scarcely promise that,” I laughed. “But why were you so reluctant to come here again?” I inquired.“Because I had no desire to cause you any unnecessary worry,” she replied.“Unnecessary worry? What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.But she only laughed, without giving me any satisfactory answer.“I’m extremely pleased to see you,” I said, and in response to my summons Simes entered with the tea, which she poured out, gracefully handing me my cup.“I’m of course very pleased to come and see you like this,” she said when my man had gone; “but if my aunt knew, she wouldn’t like it.”“I suppose she was concerned about you the other night, wasn’t she?”“Oh yes,” she replied with a smile. “We’ve often laughed over my absurd ignorance of London.”“Do you intend to live always with your aunt?”“Ah, I do not know. Unfortunately there are some in whose footsteps evil always follows; some upon whom the shadow of sin for ever falls,” and she sighed as she added, “I am one of those.”I glanced across at her in surprise. She was holding her cup in her hand, and her face was pale and agitated, as though the confession had involuntarily escaped her.“I don’t understand?” I said, puzzled. “Are you a fatalist?”“I’m not quite certain,” she answered, in an undecided tone. “As I have already told you, I hesitated to visit you because of the evil which I bring upon those who are my friends.”“But explain to me,” I exclaimed, interested. “Of what nature is this evil? It is surely not inevitable?”“Yes,” she responded, in a calm, low voice, “it is inevitable. You have been very kind to me, therefore I have no desire to cause you any unhappiness.”“I really can’t help thinking that you view things rather gloomily,” I said, in as irresponsible a tone as I could.“I only tell you that which is the truth. Some persons have a faculty for working evil, even when they intend to do good. They are the accursed among their fellows.”Her observation was an extraordinary one, inasmuch as more than one great scientist has put forward a similar theory, although the cause of the evil influence which such persons are able to exercise has never been discovered.About her face was nothing evil, nothing crafty, nothing to lead one to suspect that she was not what she seemed—pure, innocent, and womanly. Indeed, as she sat before me, I felt inclined to laugh at her assertion as some absurd fantasy of the imagination. Surely no evil could lurk behind such a face as hers?“You are not one of the accursed,” I protested, smiling.“But I am!” she answered, looking me straight in the face. Then, starting forward, she exclaimed, “Oh! why did you press me to come here, to you?”“Because I count you among my friends,” I responded. “To see me and drink a cup of tea can surely do no harm, either to you or to me.”“But it will!” she cried in agitation. “Have I not told you that evil follows in my footsteps—that those who are my friends always suffer the penalty of my friendship?”“You speak like a prophetess,” I laughed.“Ah! you don’t believe me!” she exclaimed. “I see you don’t. You will never believe until the hideous truth is forced upon you.”“No,” I said, “I don’t believe. Let us talk of something else, Aline—if I may be permitted to call you by your Christian name?”“You have called me by that name already without permission,” she laughed gaily, her manner instantly changing. “It would be ungenerous of me to object, would it not?”“You are extremely philosophical,” I observed, handing her my cup to be refilled.“I’m afraid you must have formed a very curious opinion of me,” she replied.“You seem to have no inclination to tell me anything of yourself,” I said. “I fancy I have told you all about myself worth knowing, but you will tell me nothing in exchange.”“Why should you desire to know? I cannot interest you more than a mere passing acquaintance, to be entertained to-day and forgotten to-morrow.”“No, not forgotten,” I said reproachfully. “You may forget me, but I shall never forget our meeting the other night.”“It will be best if you do forget me,” she declared.“But I cannot!” I declared passionately, bending and looking straight into her beautiful countenance.“I shall never forget.”“Because my face interests you, you are fascinated! Come, admit the truth,” she said, with a plain straightforwardness that somewhat took me aback.“Yes,” I said. “That’s the truth. I freely admit it.”She laughed a light, merry, tantalising laugh, as if ridiculing such an idea. Her face at that instant seemed more attractive than ever it appeared before; her smiling lips, half-parted, seemed pouted, inviting me to kiss them.“Why should a man be attracted by a woman’s face?” she argued, growing suddenly serious again. “He should judge her by her manner, her thoughts, her womanly feeling, and her absence of that masculine affectation which in these days so deforms the feminine character.”“But beauty is one of woman’s most charming attributes,” I ventured to remark.“Are not things that are most beautiful the most deadly?”“Certainly, some are,” I admitted.“Then for aught you know the influence I can exert upon you may be of the most evil kind,” she suggested.“No, no!” I hastened to protest. “I’ll never believe that—never! I wish for no greater pleasure than that you should remain my friend.”She was silent for some time, gazing slowly around the room. Her breast heaved and fell, as if overcome by some flood of emotion which she strove to suppress. Then, turning again to me, she said—“I have forewarned you.”“Of what?”“That if we remain friends it can result in nothing but evil.”I was puzzled. She spoke so strangely, and I, sitting there fascinated by her marvellous beauty, gazed full at her in silence.“You speak in enigmas,” I exclaimed.“You have only to choose for yourself.”“Your words are those of one who fears some terrible catastrophe,” I said. “I don’t really understand.”“Ah! you cannot. It’s impossible!” she answered in a low, hollow voice, all life having left her face. She was sitting in the armchair, leaning forward slightly, with her face still beautiful, but white and haggard. “If I could explain, then you might find some means to escape, but I dare not tell you. Chance has thrown us together—an evil chance—and you admire me; you think perhaps that you could love me, you—”“I do love you, Aline!” I burst forth with an impetuosity which was beyond my control, and springing to my feet I caught her hand and pressed it to my lips.“Ah!” she sighed, allowing the hand to remain limp and inert in mine. “Yes, I dreaded this. I was convinced from your manner that my fascination had fallen upon you. No!” she cried, rising slowly and determinedly to her feet. “No! I tell you that you must not love me. Rather hate me—curse me for the evil I have already wrought—detest my name as that of one whose sin is unpardonable, whose contact is deadly, and at whose touch all that is good and honest and just withers and passes away. You do not know me, you cannot know me, or you would not kiss my hand,” she cried, with a strange glint in her eyes as she held forth her small, white palm. “You love me!” she added, panting, with a hoarse, harsh laugh. “Say rather that you hold me in eternal loathing.”“All this puzzles me,” I cried, standing stone still. “You revile yourself, but if you have sinned surely there is atonement? Your past cannot have been so ugly as you would make me believe.”“My past concerns none but myself,” she said quickly, as if indignant that I should have mentioned an unwelcome subject. “It is the future that I anticipate with dread, a future in which you appear determined to sacrifice yourself as victim.”“I cannot be a victim if you love me in return, Aline,” I said calmly.“I—love you?” She laughed in a strange, half-amused way. “What would you have? Would you have me caress you and yet wreck your future; kiss you, and yet at the same moment exert upon you that baneful power which must inevitably sap your life and render you as capable as myself of doing evil to your fellow-men? Ah! you do not know what you say, or you would never suggest that I, of all women, should love you.”I gazed at her open-mouthed in amazement. Such a speech from the lips of one so young, so beautiful, so altogether ingenuous, was absolutely without parallel.“I cannot help myself. I love you all the same, Aline,” I faltered.“Yes, I know,” she replied quickly, with that same strange light in her eyes which I had only noticed once before. At that instant they seemed to flash with a vengeful fire, but in a second the strange glance she gave me had been succeeded by that calm, wistful look which when we had first met had so impressed me.The idea that she was not quite responsible for her strange speeches I scouted. She was as sane as myself, thoughtful, quick of perception, yet possessing a mysteriousness of manner which was intensely puzzling. This extraordinary declaration of hers seemed as though she anticipated that some terrible catastrophe would befall me, and that now the influence of her beauty was upon me, and I loved her, the spell would drag me to the depths of despair.“A woman knows in an instant by her natural intuition when she is loved,” she continued, speaking slowly and with emphasis. “Well, if you choose to throw all your happiness to the winds, then you are, of course, at liberty to do so. Yet, if you think that I can ever reciprocate your love you have formed an entirely wrong estimate of my character. One whose mission it is to work evil cannot love. I can hate—and hate well—but affection knows no place in my heart.”“That’s a terrible self-denunciation,” I said. “Have you never loved, then?”“Love comes always once to a woman, as it does to a man,” she replied. “Yes, I loved once.”“And it was an unfortunate attachment?”She nodded.“As unfortunate as yours is,” she said, hoarsely.“But cannot I take your lover’s place?” I bent and whispered passionately. “Will you not let me love you? I will do so with all my heart, with all my soul.”She raised her fine eyes to mine, and after a moment’s pause, added—“I am entirely in your hands. You say you love me now—you love me because you consider my beauty greater than that of other women; because I have fascinated you.” And sighing she slowly sank into her chair again. Then she added, “You wish me to be yours, but that I can never be. I can be your friend, but recollect I can never love you—never!” Then, putting forth her white hand she took mine, and looking into my face with a sweet, imploring expression, she went on—“Think well of what I have said. Reflect upon my words. Surely it is best to end our friendship when you know how impossible it is for me to love you in return.”“Then you will not allow me to take the place in your heart that your lost lover once occupied?” I said, with deep disappointment.“It is impossible!” she answered, shaking her head gravely. “The love which comes to each of us once in a lifetime is like no other. If doomed to misfortune, it can never be replaced. None can fill the breach in a wounded heart.”“That is only too true,” I was compelled to admit. “Yet I cannot relinquish you, Aline, because I love you.”“You are infatuated—like other men have been,” she said, with a faint, pitying smile. “Holding you in esteem as I do, I regret it.”“Why?”“This is but the second time we have met, and you know nothing of my character,” she pointed out. “Your love is, therefore, mere admiration.”I shook my head. Her argument was unconvincing.“Well,” she went on, “Ionly desire that you should release me from this bond of friendship formed by your kindness to me the other night. It would be better for you, better for me, if we parted this evening never to again meet.”“That’s impossible. I must see you from time to time, even though you may endeavour to put me from you. I do not fear this mysterious evil which you prophesy, because loving you as firmly as I do, no harm can befall me.”“Ah, no!” she cried. “Do not say that. Think that the evil in the world is far stronger than the good; that sin is in the ascendency, and that the honest and upright are in the minority. Remember that no man is infallible, and that ill-fortune always strikes those who are least prepared to withstand the shock.”I remained silent. She spoke so earnestly, and with such heartfelt concern for my welfare, that I was half-convinced of her sincerity of purpose. The calmness of her words and her dignity of bearing was utterly mystifying. Outwardly she was a mere girl, timid, unused to the world and its ways, honest-eyed and open-faced; yet her words were those of a woman who had had a long and bitter experience of loves and hatreds, and to whom a lover was no new experience. Beneath these strange declarations there was, I felt certain, some hidden meaning, but its nature I utterly failed to grasp.I was young, impetuous, madly in love with this mysterious, beautiful woman who had come so suddenly into my otherwise happy, irresponsible life, and I had made my declaration of affection without counting the cost.“I care not what evil may fall upon me,” I said boldly, holding her hand in tightening grip. “I have heard you, and have decided that I will love you, Aline.”Again I raised her hand, and in silence she allowed me to kiss her fingers, without seeking to withdraw them.She only sighed. I thought there was a passing look of pity in her eyes for a single moment, but could not decide whether it had really been there or whether it was merely imaginary.“Then, if that is your decision, so let it be!” she murmured hoarsely.And we were silent for a long time.I looked into her beautiful eyes in admiration, for was I not now her lover? Was not Aline Cloud my beloved?The dying day darkened into night, and Simes entering to draw down the blinds compelled us to converse on topics far from our inmost thoughts.She allowed me to smoke, but when I invited her to dine, she firmly declined.“No,” she answered. “For to-day this is sufficient. I regret that I called to visit you—I shall regret it all my life through.”“Why?” I demanded, dismayed. “Ah, don’t say that, Aline! Remember that you’ve permitted me to love you.”“I have only permitted what I cannot obviate,” she answered, in a hard, strained voice. I saw that tears were in her eyes, and that she was now filled with regret.Yet I loved her, and felt that my true, honest affection must sooner or later be reciprocated.Without further word she rose, drew on her gloves, placed her warm cape around her shoulders and pulled down her veil. Then she stretched forth her hand.“You will not remain and dine? Do!” I urged.“Not to-night,” she answered, in a voice quite different from her usual tone. “I will accept your invitation on another occasion.”“When shall I see you?” I asked. “May I hope to-morrow?”“I will call when it is possible,” she replied. “You say you love me. Then promise me one thing.”“Anything you wish I am ready to grant,” I answered.“Then do not write to me, or seek me. I will call and see you whenever my time admits.”“But may I not write?” I asked.“No,” she answered firmly. “No letters must pass between us.”I saw that she meant to enforce this condition, therefore did not argue, but reluctantly took leave of her after her refusal to allow me to accompany her back to Hampstead.Again she allowed me to kiss her hand, then turning slowly she sighed and passed out, preceded by Simes, who opened the door for her.I sank back into my chair when the door closed upon her, puzzled yet ecstatic. This woman, the most beautiful I had ever seen, had allowed me to love her.I had at last an object in life. Aline Cloud was my well-beloved, and I would live only for her. In those moments, as I sat alone gazing into the fire, I became filled with a great content, for infatuation had overwhelmed me.The clock striking seven at last aroused me to a sense of hunger, and I rose to dross before going along to the club to dine. As I did so, however, my eyes suddenly fell upon the mantel-shelf, and I stood amazed, dumbfounded, rooted to the spot.Upon the shelf there had been a small wooden medallion, a specimen of the Russian peasants’ carving, representing the head of a Madonna—I had bought it in Moscow a year before—but an utterly astounding thing had occurred.I could scarce believe my own eyes.It had been consumed by an unseen fire, just as the crucifix had been, and nothing but a little white ash now remained!“Good heavens!” I gasped; and with my finger touched the ashes.They were still warm!I stood wondering, my gaze fixed upon the consumed Madonna, reflecting that upon the occasion of Aline’s last visit my crucifix was destroyed in the same manner by some unseen agency, and now, strangely enough, this second sacred emblem in my possession had with her presence disappeared, falling into ashes beneath my very eyes.The mysterious influence of evil she confessed to possessing was here illustrated in a manner that was unmistakable.In an instant all the strange words she had uttered swept through my bewildered brain as I stood there terrified, aghast.The mystery surrounding her was as inexplicable as it was startling.

The afternoon was damp, chilly, and cheerless as I stood at my window awaiting Aline. I had written to her, and after some days received a reply addressed from somewhere in South London declining to accept my invitation, but in response to a second and more pressing letter I had received a telegram, and now stood impatient for her coming.

Outside, it was growing gloomy. Thematinéeat the Garrick Theatre was over, and the afternoon playgoers had all gone their various ways, while the long string of light carts belonging to thePall Mall Gazettestood opposite, ready to distribute the special edition of that journal in every part of London. The wind blew gustily, and the people passing were compelled to clutch their hats. Inside, however, a bright fire burned, and I had set my easiest chair ready for the reception of the dainty girl who held me beneath her spell.

Even at that moment I recollected Muriel, but cast her out of my thoughts when I reflected upon Aline’s bewitching beauty.

Moments passed as hours. In the darkening day I stood watching for her, but saw no sign, until I began to fear she would disappoint me. Indeed, the clock on the mantel-shelf, the little timepiece which I had carried on all my travels, had already struck five, whereas the hour she had appointed was half-past four.

Suddenly, however, the door opening caused me to turn, and my pretty companion of that night was ushered in by Simes.

“I’m late,” she said apologetically. “I trust you will forgive me.”

“It is a lady’s privilege to be late,” I responded, taking her hand, and welcoming her gladly.

She took the chair at my invitation, and I saw that she was dressed extremely plainly, wearing no ornaments. The dress was not the same she had worn when we had met, but another of more funereal aspect. Yet she was dainty and chic from her large black hat, which well suited her pale, innocent type of beauty, down to her tiny, patent-leather shoe. As she placed her foot out upon the footstool I did not fail to notice how neat was the ankle encased in its black silk stocking, or how small was the little pointed shoe.

“Why did you ask me to come here?” she asked, with a slightly nervous laugh when, at my suggestion, she had drawn off her gloves.

“Because I did not intend that we should drift apart altogether,” I answered. “If you had refused, I should have come to you.”

“At Ellerdale Road?” she exclaimed in alarm.

“Yes; why not? Is your aunt such a terrible person?”

“No,” she exclaimed in all seriousness. “Promise me you will not seek me—never.”

“I can scarcely promise that,” I laughed. “But why were you so reluctant to come here again?” I inquired.

“Because I had no desire to cause you any unnecessary worry,” she replied.

“Unnecessary worry? What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

But she only laughed, without giving me any satisfactory answer.

“I’m extremely pleased to see you,” I said, and in response to my summons Simes entered with the tea, which she poured out, gracefully handing me my cup.

“I’m of course very pleased to come and see you like this,” she said when my man had gone; “but if my aunt knew, she wouldn’t like it.”

“I suppose she was concerned about you the other night, wasn’t she?”

“Oh yes,” she replied with a smile. “We’ve often laughed over my absurd ignorance of London.”

“Do you intend to live always with your aunt?”

“Ah, I do not know. Unfortunately there are some in whose footsteps evil always follows; some upon whom the shadow of sin for ever falls,” and she sighed as she added, “I am one of those.”

I glanced across at her in surprise. She was holding her cup in her hand, and her face was pale and agitated, as though the confession had involuntarily escaped her.

“I don’t understand?” I said, puzzled. “Are you a fatalist?”

“I’m not quite certain,” she answered, in an undecided tone. “As I have already told you, I hesitated to visit you because of the evil which I bring upon those who are my friends.”

“But explain to me,” I exclaimed, interested. “Of what nature is this evil? It is surely not inevitable?”

“Yes,” she responded, in a calm, low voice, “it is inevitable. You have been very kind to me, therefore I have no desire to cause you any unhappiness.”

“I really can’t help thinking that you view things rather gloomily,” I said, in as irresponsible a tone as I could.

“I only tell you that which is the truth. Some persons have a faculty for working evil, even when they intend to do good. They are the accursed among their fellows.”

Her observation was an extraordinary one, inasmuch as more than one great scientist has put forward a similar theory, although the cause of the evil influence which such persons are able to exercise has never been discovered.

About her face was nothing evil, nothing crafty, nothing to lead one to suspect that she was not what she seemed—pure, innocent, and womanly. Indeed, as she sat before me, I felt inclined to laugh at her assertion as some absurd fantasy of the imagination. Surely no evil could lurk behind such a face as hers?

“You are not one of the accursed,” I protested, smiling.

“But I am!” she answered, looking me straight in the face. Then, starting forward, she exclaimed, “Oh! why did you press me to come here, to you?”

“Because I count you among my friends,” I responded. “To see me and drink a cup of tea can surely do no harm, either to you or to me.”

“But it will!” she cried in agitation. “Have I not told you that evil follows in my footsteps—that those who are my friends always suffer the penalty of my friendship?”

“You speak like a prophetess,” I laughed.

“Ah! you don’t believe me!” she exclaimed. “I see you don’t. You will never believe until the hideous truth is forced upon you.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t believe. Let us talk of something else, Aline—if I may be permitted to call you by your Christian name?”

“You have called me by that name already without permission,” she laughed gaily, her manner instantly changing. “It would be ungenerous of me to object, would it not?”

“You are extremely philosophical,” I observed, handing her my cup to be refilled.

“I’m afraid you must have formed a very curious opinion of me,” she replied.

“You seem to have no inclination to tell me anything of yourself,” I said. “I fancy I have told you all about myself worth knowing, but you will tell me nothing in exchange.”

“Why should you desire to know? I cannot interest you more than a mere passing acquaintance, to be entertained to-day and forgotten to-morrow.”

“No, not forgotten,” I said reproachfully. “You may forget me, but I shall never forget our meeting the other night.”

“It will be best if you do forget me,” she declared.

“But I cannot!” I declared passionately, bending and looking straight into her beautiful countenance.

“I shall never forget.”

“Because my face interests you, you are fascinated! Come, admit the truth,” she said, with a plain straightforwardness that somewhat took me aback.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s the truth. I freely admit it.”

She laughed a light, merry, tantalising laugh, as if ridiculing such an idea. Her face at that instant seemed more attractive than ever it appeared before; her smiling lips, half-parted, seemed pouted, inviting me to kiss them.

“Why should a man be attracted by a woman’s face?” she argued, growing suddenly serious again. “He should judge her by her manner, her thoughts, her womanly feeling, and her absence of that masculine affectation which in these days so deforms the feminine character.”

“But beauty is one of woman’s most charming attributes,” I ventured to remark.

“Are not things that are most beautiful the most deadly?”

“Certainly, some are,” I admitted.

“Then for aught you know the influence I can exert upon you may be of the most evil kind,” she suggested.

“No, no!” I hastened to protest. “I’ll never believe that—never! I wish for no greater pleasure than that you should remain my friend.”

She was silent for some time, gazing slowly around the room. Her breast heaved and fell, as if overcome by some flood of emotion which she strove to suppress. Then, turning again to me, she said—

“I have forewarned you.”

“Of what?”

“That if we remain friends it can result in nothing but evil.”

I was puzzled. She spoke so strangely, and I, sitting there fascinated by her marvellous beauty, gazed full at her in silence.

“You speak in enigmas,” I exclaimed.

“You have only to choose for yourself.”

“Your words are those of one who fears some terrible catastrophe,” I said. “I don’t really understand.”

“Ah! you cannot. It’s impossible!” she answered in a low, hollow voice, all life having left her face. She was sitting in the armchair, leaning forward slightly, with her face still beautiful, but white and haggard. “If I could explain, then you might find some means to escape, but I dare not tell you. Chance has thrown us together—an evil chance—and you admire me; you think perhaps that you could love me, you—”

“I do love you, Aline!” I burst forth with an impetuosity which was beyond my control, and springing to my feet I caught her hand and pressed it to my lips.

“Ah!” she sighed, allowing the hand to remain limp and inert in mine. “Yes, I dreaded this. I was convinced from your manner that my fascination had fallen upon you. No!” she cried, rising slowly and determinedly to her feet. “No! I tell you that you must not love me. Rather hate me—curse me for the evil I have already wrought—detest my name as that of one whose sin is unpardonable, whose contact is deadly, and at whose touch all that is good and honest and just withers and passes away. You do not know me, you cannot know me, or you would not kiss my hand,” she cried, with a strange glint in her eyes as she held forth her small, white palm. “You love me!” she added, panting, with a hoarse, harsh laugh. “Say rather that you hold me in eternal loathing.”

“All this puzzles me,” I cried, standing stone still. “You revile yourself, but if you have sinned surely there is atonement? Your past cannot have been so ugly as you would make me believe.”

“My past concerns none but myself,” she said quickly, as if indignant that I should have mentioned an unwelcome subject. “It is the future that I anticipate with dread, a future in which you appear determined to sacrifice yourself as victim.”

“I cannot be a victim if you love me in return, Aline,” I said calmly.

“I—love you?” She laughed in a strange, half-amused way. “What would you have? Would you have me caress you and yet wreck your future; kiss you, and yet at the same moment exert upon you that baneful power which must inevitably sap your life and render you as capable as myself of doing evil to your fellow-men? Ah! you do not know what you say, or you would never suggest that I, of all women, should love you.”

I gazed at her open-mouthed in amazement. Such a speech from the lips of one so young, so beautiful, so altogether ingenuous, was absolutely without parallel.

“I cannot help myself. I love you all the same, Aline,” I faltered.

“Yes, I know,” she replied quickly, with that same strange light in her eyes which I had only noticed once before. At that instant they seemed to flash with a vengeful fire, but in a second the strange glance she gave me had been succeeded by that calm, wistful look which when we had first met had so impressed me.

The idea that she was not quite responsible for her strange speeches I scouted. She was as sane as myself, thoughtful, quick of perception, yet possessing a mysteriousness of manner which was intensely puzzling. This extraordinary declaration of hers seemed as though she anticipated that some terrible catastrophe would befall me, and that now the influence of her beauty was upon me, and I loved her, the spell would drag me to the depths of despair.

“A woman knows in an instant by her natural intuition when she is loved,” she continued, speaking slowly and with emphasis. “Well, if you choose to throw all your happiness to the winds, then you are, of course, at liberty to do so. Yet, if you think that I can ever reciprocate your love you have formed an entirely wrong estimate of my character. One whose mission it is to work evil cannot love. I can hate—and hate well—but affection knows no place in my heart.”

“That’s a terrible self-denunciation,” I said. “Have you never loved, then?”

“Love comes always once to a woman, as it does to a man,” she replied. “Yes, I loved once.”

“And it was an unfortunate attachment?”

She nodded.

“As unfortunate as yours is,” she said, hoarsely.

“But cannot I take your lover’s place?” I bent and whispered passionately. “Will you not let me love you? I will do so with all my heart, with all my soul.”

She raised her fine eyes to mine, and after a moment’s pause, added—

“I am entirely in your hands. You say you love me now—you love me because you consider my beauty greater than that of other women; because I have fascinated you.” And sighing she slowly sank into her chair again. Then she added, “You wish me to be yours, but that I can never be. I can be your friend, but recollect I can never love you—never!” Then, putting forth her white hand she took mine, and looking into my face with a sweet, imploring expression, she went on—

“Think well of what I have said. Reflect upon my words. Surely it is best to end our friendship when you know how impossible it is for me to love you in return.”

“Then you will not allow me to take the place in your heart that your lost lover once occupied?” I said, with deep disappointment.

“It is impossible!” she answered, shaking her head gravely. “The love which comes to each of us once in a lifetime is like no other. If doomed to misfortune, it can never be replaced. None can fill the breach in a wounded heart.”

“That is only too true,” I was compelled to admit. “Yet I cannot relinquish you, Aline, because I love you.”

“You are infatuated—like other men have been,” she said, with a faint, pitying smile. “Holding you in esteem as I do, I regret it.”

“Why?”

“This is but the second time we have met, and you know nothing of my character,” she pointed out. “Your love is, therefore, mere admiration.”

I shook my head. Her argument was unconvincing.

“Well,” she went on, “Ionly desire that you should release me from this bond of friendship formed by your kindness to me the other night. It would be better for you, better for me, if we parted this evening never to again meet.”

“That’s impossible. I must see you from time to time, even though you may endeavour to put me from you. I do not fear this mysterious evil which you prophesy, because loving you as firmly as I do, no harm can befall me.”

“Ah, no!” she cried. “Do not say that. Think that the evil in the world is far stronger than the good; that sin is in the ascendency, and that the honest and upright are in the minority. Remember that no man is infallible, and that ill-fortune always strikes those who are least prepared to withstand the shock.”

I remained silent. She spoke so earnestly, and with such heartfelt concern for my welfare, that I was half-convinced of her sincerity of purpose. The calmness of her words and her dignity of bearing was utterly mystifying. Outwardly she was a mere girl, timid, unused to the world and its ways, honest-eyed and open-faced; yet her words were those of a woman who had had a long and bitter experience of loves and hatreds, and to whom a lover was no new experience. Beneath these strange declarations there was, I felt certain, some hidden meaning, but its nature I utterly failed to grasp.

I was young, impetuous, madly in love with this mysterious, beautiful woman who had come so suddenly into my otherwise happy, irresponsible life, and I had made my declaration of affection without counting the cost.

“I care not what evil may fall upon me,” I said boldly, holding her hand in tightening grip. “I have heard you, and have decided that I will love you, Aline.”

Again I raised her hand, and in silence she allowed me to kiss her fingers, without seeking to withdraw them.

She only sighed. I thought there was a passing look of pity in her eyes for a single moment, but could not decide whether it had really been there or whether it was merely imaginary.

“Then, if that is your decision, so let it be!” she murmured hoarsely.

And we were silent for a long time.

I looked into her beautiful eyes in admiration, for was I not now her lover? Was not Aline Cloud my beloved?

The dying day darkened into night, and Simes entering to draw down the blinds compelled us to converse on topics far from our inmost thoughts.

She allowed me to smoke, but when I invited her to dine, she firmly declined.

“No,” she answered. “For to-day this is sufficient. I regret that I called to visit you—I shall regret it all my life through.”

“Why?” I demanded, dismayed. “Ah, don’t say that, Aline! Remember that you’ve permitted me to love you.”

“I have only permitted what I cannot obviate,” she answered, in a hard, strained voice. I saw that tears were in her eyes, and that she was now filled with regret.

Yet I loved her, and felt that my true, honest affection must sooner or later be reciprocated.

Without further word she rose, drew on her gloves, placed her warm cape around her shoulders and pulled down her veil. Then she stretched forth her hand.

“You will not remain and dine? Do!” I urged.

“Not to-night,” she answered, in a voice quite different from her usual tone. “I will accept your invitation on another occasion.”

“When shall I see you?” I asked. “May I hope to-morrow?”

“I will call when it is possible,” she replied. “You say you love me. Then promise me one thing.”

“Anything you wish I am ready to grant,” I answered.

“Then do not write to me, or seek me. I will call and see you whenever my time admits.”

“But may I not write?” I asked.

“No,” she answered firmly. “No letters must pass between us.”

I saw that she meant to enforce this condition, therefore did not argue, but reluctantly took leave of her after her refusal to allow me to accompany her back to Hampstead.

Again she allowed me to kiss her hand, then turning slowly she sighed and passed out, preceded by Simes, who opened the door for her.

I sank back into my chair when the door closed upon her, puzzled yet ecstatic. This woman, the most beautiful I had ever seen, had allowed me to love her.

I had at last an object in life. Aline Cloud was my well-beloved, and I would live only for her. In those moments, as I sat alone gazing into the fire, I became filled with a great content, for infatuation had overwhelmed me.

The clock striking seven at last aroused me to a sense of hunger, and I rose to dross before going along to the club to dine. As I did so, however, my eyes suddenly fell upon the mantel-shelf, and I stood amazed, dumbfounded, rooted to the spot.

Upon the shelf there had been a small wooden medallion, a specimen of the Russian peasants’ carving, representing the head of a Madonna—I had bought it in Moscow a year before—but an utterly astounding thing had occurred.

I could scarce believe my own eyes.

It had been consumed by an unseen fire, just as the crucifix had been, and nothing but a little white ash now remained!

“Good heavens!” I gasped; and with my finger touched the ashes.

They were still warm!

I stood wondering, my gaze fixed upon the consumed Madonna, reflecting that upon the occasion of Aline’s last visit my crucifix was destroyed in the same manner by some unseen agency, and now, strangely enough, this second sacred emblem in my possession had with her presence disappeared, falling into ashes beneath my very eyes.

The mysterious influence of evil she confessed to possessing was here illustrated in a manner that was unmistakable.

In an instant all the strange words she had uttered swept through my bewildered brain as I stood there terrified, aghast.

The mystery surrounding her was as inexplicable as it was startling.

Chapter Five.The Bony-Faced Man.Daily the problem grew more puzzling.The fusing of the crucifix and the carved medallion of the Madonna were clearly due to the presence of the mysterious Aline, the beautiful woman who had warned me against the strange evil she exerted over those with whom she came in contact. Such occurrences seemed supernatural; yet so curious were her words and actions, and so peculiar and impressive her beauty, that I could not help doubting whether she actually existed in flesh and blood, or only in some bright vision that had come to hold me in fascination. Yet Simes had seen her, and had spoken with her. There was therefore no doubt that she was a living person, even though she might be a sorceress.Nevertheless, they were something more than mere conjuring feats which caused the sacred objects in my room to spontaneously consume in her presence. Had she not told me plainly that evil followed in her footsteps? Did not these two inexplicable events fully bear out her words?I called Simes, and when I showed him the Madonna he stood glaring at it as one terrified.“I don’t like that lady, sir,” he exclaimed, glancing at me.“Why not?”“Well, sir, pardon me for saying so, but I believe she can work the evil of the very Devil himself.”That was exactly my own opinion; therefore I preserved silence.As lover of a woman possessed of a mysterious influence, the like of which I had never before heard, my position was certainly an unique one. In the days which followed I tried to argue with myself that I did not love her; to convince myself that what she had alleged was true, namely, that I admired but did not love her. Yet all was in vain. I was fascinated by her large blue eyes, which looked out upon me with that calm, childlike innocence, and remaining beneath their spell, believed that I loved her.The mystery with which she had surrounded herself was remarkable. Her refusal to allow me to call upon her, or even to write, was strange, yet her excuse that her aunt would be annoyed was plausible enough.Compelled, therefore, to await her visit, I remained from day to day anxious to meet her because I loved her.On entering the club one afternoon I found Roddy alone in the smoking-room, writing a letter.“Well!” he cried, merrily, gripping my hand. “How goes it—and how’s your little mystery going on?”I sank into a chair close to him and told him of Aline’s visit.“And you’re clean gone on her—eh?” he queried.I shrugged my shoulders and gave him a vague reply.“Well, take care,” he said in a serious tone. “If I were you I’d find out who and what she is. She might be some adventuress or other.”“Do you suspect her to be an adventuress?” I inquired quickly.“My dear fellow, how can I tell? There seems to me something rather shady about her, that’s all.”I pondered. Yes, he spoke the truth. There was something shady about her. She would tell me absolutely nothing of herself.We smoked together for half an hour, then parted, for he was compelled to go down to the House, as a dutiful legislator should.A week passed yet I saw not Aline, nor had any word from her. From day to day I existed in all anxiety to once again look upon that face so angelic in its beauty and so pure in expression. Indeed, more than once I felt inclined to break the promise I had made her and call at Ellerdale Road, but I refrained, fearing lest such a course might annoy her.One evening, a fortnight after she had visited me, I was walking along the Bayswater Road towards Oxford Street, skirting the railings of Hyde Park, when suddenly I noticed before me two figures, a man and a woman. They were walking slowly, deep in conversation.In an instant I recognised the slim, perfect figure in the black jacket and black hat as that of Aline, and drew back to escape observation.Her companion was tall, thin, and rather ill-dressed. As they passed beneath a street-lamp I discerned that he was about forty, with lank black hair, a long black moustache, and a sallow, bony face—a countenance the reverse of prepossessing. His silk hat had seen better days, his frock-coat was tightly buttoned for warmth, as he had no overcoat, and his boots were sadly run down at heel. As this seedy individual walked beside her she was speaking rapidly, while he, bonding to her, was listening intently.The meeting was such an unexpected one that at first I was at a loss what to do. Next moment, however, with the fire of jealousy aroused within me, I resolved to follow them and watch. They strolled slowly along until they came to Victoria Gate, and then turned into the Park, at that hour dark and deserted. I noticed that as they entered she took his arm, and it appeared as if they were going in the direction of Grosvenor Gate, which leads out into Park Lane; for they crossed the Ring, and continued straight ahead along the tree-lined avenue. But few lights were there, so following at a respectable distance, I managed to keep them in sight.Soon, however, they rested upon a seat at foot of a great old beech, and continued their conversation. I had, of course, a keen desire to learn the nature of this exchange of confidences, but the problem was how to approach sufficiently near and yet escape observation. At first I was inclined to relinquish my endeavours, but suddenly it occurred to me that I might get over the railing on to the grass, and in the darkness approach noiselessly behind the tree where they were seated.Therefore, turning back some distance to a bend in the path, where they could not detect me, I sprang over the iron fencing, and treading softly, cautiously made my way up behind them, until I actually stood behind the tree within three yards of them, but with the railing between us.Then, scarce daring to breathe, I waited to catch their words. Of this shabby-genteel fellow, evidently her lover, I was madly jealous; but my anger was instantly changed to surprise when I heard the nature of their conversation.“But you must!” he was saying earnestly.“I tell you, I won’t!” she answered decisively. “The risk is too great—far too great.”“But as I’ve already told you, it’s absolutely imperative.”He spoke roughly, but with a refinement which showed him to be educated. He bore outward evidence of having come down in the world.“I wouldn’t act like that if I were offered a thousand pounds,” she declared.“But it must be done,” he urged.“Not by me.”“Do you intend to back out, then?” he inquired roughly.“I merely tell you plainly that you and your ruffianly associates have gone quite far enough. That’s all,” she answered calmly. Her words were not those which a woman usually uses towards her lover.He gave vent to a short, brutal laugh, as if enjoying her indignation.“It’s all very well to talk like this, Aline,” he said; “but you know quite well that argument is useless. You must do it.”“I will not, I tell you!” she cried fiercely.“Well, we shall see,” he answered. “Recollect that you are one of us, and as such, to break away is impossible.”“I know that, only too well,” she answered bitterly. “But it is terrible—horrible! As each day passes I am more and more convinced that the truth must soon be discovered.”“And if it is?”“I will never live to bear the exposure,” she said, in the hoarse, low voice of one desperate.“My dear girl,” he exclaimed, “you who have beauty and a plausible tongue have the world before you; yet you always refuse to seize your opportunity. You who possess the power of the King of Evil, whose touch is deadly and whose caress is venomous, could rule an empire if you wished; yet you are inert, lethargic, and refuse to assist us, even in this.”“I will not sin deeper than I have already sinned,” she answered. “I will have no hand in it.”“Why not?”“It is horrible!” she protested. “And I tell you, once and for all, that I will have nothing to do with the affair.”“You’re a fool!” he cried roughly.“True! I am, or I would never have fallen thus into the trap you and your friends baited so cunningly.”“You are beautiful!” he answered, with a harsh laugh. “A beautiful woman is always a safe trap for fools.”“If men admire me I cannot help it; if they love me then it is against my wish, for since that day long ago, when the Spirit of Evil entered into me, love has known no place in my heart.”“Well spoken!” he exclaimed. “If you have no love for him the rest is quite easy.”“Though all love within me is dead, I yet have a woman’s heart, and womanly feeling,” she said. “I know that my beauty is only a curse; I am well aware that men who have admired me have been drawn irresistibly to their doom. Ah!” and she shuddered in shame, “it is terrible—terrible!”“Yet why should you regret?” he queried. “You are not of their world; you have nothing in common with them. You have been given beauty, the most marvellous, perhaps, in all the world; diabolic beauty, which causes you to be remarked wherever you go; which has caused the downfall of the upright, and has wrecked the lives of those who trust in the guardian Spirit of Good.”“Yes, I know,” she answered quickly. “Yet I am tired of it all. I am aware that my power for the working of evil among my fellow-creatures is greater than that of any other person of flesh and blood; that at my touch objects held sacred are defiled and consumed, that sight of my face may cause a veritable saint to turn from his asceticism and become an evil-doer. All this I know, alas! All this is due to the influence of evil, which once I might have striven against, had I wished.”“You possess thebeauté du Diable,” he said. “Are you not the daughter of Satan?”“If I am I decline to commit any further crime at your bidding,” she answered, with indignation. “You have held me enthralled until now, but I tell you that you have strained the bond until it will ere long break. Then I shall be free.”“I’m pleased that you have such pleasant anticipations,” he replied. “A woman who once gives herself over to the Evil One can never regain her freedom.”“But she can refuse to increase the enormity of her sin by committing crime at the bidding of the man who holds her beneath his thrall,” she answered.“You know what such refusal means?” he said in a threatening tone.“Yes—death. Well, I do not fear it. Within me a new love has been awakened. I now love for the first time in all my life.”“Yet you have already said that in your heart love knows no place.”“I tell you I love him!” she cried. “He shall not suffer!”She was evidently referring to me. I held my breath, eager to catch every syllable. Perhaps this man was urging her to kill me!“The power you possess to work evil is irresistible,” he said briefly.“Alas! I know it,” she answered. “Those with whom I am in daily contact little dream of who or what I really am, or they would shun me as they would shun a leper.”“Why should they?” her bony-faced companion asked. “Evil has been dominant in the world for all ages, and the Prince of Darkness has still the ascendency!”“But is not mine the blackest—the foulest of all crimes?” she shuddered.“Only one touch,” he urged. “Your hand is fatal.”“Ah! why do you taunt me thus?” she cried. “Is it not enough that I should be degraded and outcast, overburdened by sin for which I cannot hope for forgiveness, and that my position should be irretrievably lost? Is it not enough that in me all the evils of the world are concentrated, and that I am shut out from happiness for ever?”“You had your choice,” the man answered. “It is true that you are one unique among the millions of your fellow-creatures. The blackness of your heart is concealed by the purity of your face, and your real being so disguised that none suspect. If your real identity were discovered some prophets would declare that the end of the world was near.” And he laughed coarsely.“Yes, yes,” she cried quickly. “But do not taunt me. I know too well the far-reaching influence which emanates from me, and the fatal effect of my touch upon all that is held sacred by those who believe in the Supreme. I have striven to do good, and have only wrought evil; I have been charitable, and my efforts have only resulted in bringing disaster upon the needy. Those whom I thought to benefit have rewarded me by curses, because all that I do is the work of the wicked. I have struggled to lead a double life, and have failed. I have tried to counterbalance the evil I am compelled to achieve by doing good works such as might endear me in the eyes of those who believe in the Supreme; but all, alas, has been in vain—all futile. I am now convinced that in my heart there can remain no good feeling, no womanly love, no charitableness towards my fellows.”“It is only what might be expected,” he said in a dry tone. “Your great beauty is given you to cover your heart. You are soulless.”“Yes,” she cried. “That is true—only too true. I have no soul, no conscience, no regret!”She spoke in a hard tone, as though utterly wearied of life. Her voice had lost its music, and her speech was of one in blank despair.“If you are without regret, then what I have suggested is the more easy of accomplishment,” he said, in a low intense voice. “Remember that no power on earth can withstand your influence.”“I will not!” she cried, starting up in fierce determination. “Through your evil counsel I have already wrought that which I shall ever regret,” she went on. “I have placed myself beneath the thraldom irrevocably, and have brought upon those who admired me a doom which has destroyed their happiness and wrecked their lives. I have now a lover—a man who, because of my good looks, is infatuated, as others have been.”“It has been decided!” her companion said, with a calmness that was appalling.“But I love him!” she declared. “I myself will be his protector!”“You intend to defy the resolution which has been arrived at?”“I have no intention of committing further sin,” she said. “I may be an evil-doer and one of the accursed, but none shall say that I deliberately acted in such manner towards one who became fascinated by my beauty. Rather would I disfigure my face by burns or acid in order to render myself ugly and unattractive.”“No woman would do that of her own free will,” he laughed.“No ordinary woman could,” she said. “But recollect who I am. Reflect upon my far-reaching influence for evil—an influence which is felt throughout this kingdom. I tell you that rather than continue I would kill myself.”The man laughed aloud.“I admit all that,” he said. “If the people of London knew the truth they would, I believe, tear you limb from limb. But they are ignorant; therefore you are but an ordinary girl of more than extraordinary beauty.”“Which means that my beauty will always ruin those upon whom I may bestow a glance. As my touch is fatal to certain objects of adoration, so is my love-look fatal to those who admire me. No,” she added, after a brief pause, “I have determined to act as this man’s protector, instead of his destroyer.”“You are relenting,” he observed with sarcasm. “Soon you will proclaim your repentance.”“No!” she cried fiercely. “I shall never repent, because of you. To you I owe the major part of this evil of which I am possessed, and to you—”“It was your choice,” he interrupted, with a brutal laugh. “You accepted the challenge, and gave your soul to the Evil One. Why blame me?”“At your instigation,” she went on in fierce anger. “To the world I am a pure, ingenuous girl; yet beneath this veil of virtue and purity I work these veritable miracles of evil, possessing a power which ofttimes appals me, an irresistible influence that nothing can withstand. I am unique in the world as possessing this superhuman faculty of being able to impart evil to those with whom I come into contact, be they pure as angels. You taunt me,” she added. “But some day you will crave mercy of me, and then I will show you none—none! I will be hard-hearted as flint—as relentless as you are to-night!”“You wish to break away from the compact, but you shall not,” the man said firmly, between his teeth. “If you prefer defiance, well and good. But I merely point out that obedience is best.”She paused. She was, I surmised, deep in reflection.“Very well,” at last she answered, in a hoarse, unnatural voice. “Now that I have sunk so low I suppose it is impossible to sink further. But recollect that this same influence that I will exert over this, my latest victim, I will one day exert over you. I warn you. One day ere long you will crave pity at my feet.”“Never from you,” the man said, with a short defiant laugh.“I have only prophesied once before,” she answered meaningly. “Whether or no that came true you are well aware. In this world of London I am, as yet, unknown, but when the true facts are known this great metropolis will stand aghast in terror. Our positions will then be reversed. You will be the victim, and I triumphant.”“Proceed,” he laughed. “All this is intensely interesting.”There was a pause, longer than before.“Then you declare that I must do this thing?” she asked, in a strange, hollow voice, the voice of one dismayed.“Yes,” her companion answered; “you must—swiftly and secretly. It is imperative.”Without further word she rose slowly to her feet, and staggered away down the gravelled path, while her companion, hesitating for a few seconds, rose with a muttered imprecation and strode along after her. A moment later they were out of hearing.The remainder of their extraordinary conversation was lost to me.One suspicion alone possessed me. That thin, shabby man had sentenced me to death.

Daily the problem grew more puzzling.

The fusing of the crucifix and the carved medallion of the Madonna were clearly due to the presence of the mysterious Aline, the beautiful woman who had warned me against the strange evil she exerted over those with whom she came in contact. Such occurrences seemed supernatural; yet so curious were her words and actions, and so peculiar and impressive her beauty, that I could not help doubting whether she actually existed in flesh and blood, or only in some bright vision that had come to hold me in fascination. Yet Simes had seen her, and had spoken with her. There was therefore no doubt that she was a living person, even though she might be a sorceress.

Nevertheless, they were something more than mere conjuring feats which caused the sacred objects in my room to spontaneously consume in her presence. Had she not told me plainly that evil followed in her footsteps? Did not these two inexplicable events fully bear out her words?

I called Simes, and when I showed him the Madonna he stood glaring at it as one terrified.

“I don’t like that lady, sir,” he exclaimed, glancing at me.

“Why not?”

“Well, sir, pardon me for saying so, but I believe she can work the evil of the very Devil himself.”

That was exactly my own opinion; therefore I preserved silence.

As lover of a woman possessed of a mysterious influence, the like of which I had never before heard, my position was certainly an unique one. In the days which followed I tried to argue with myself that I did not love her; to convince myself that what she had alleged was true, namely, that I admired but did not love her. Yet all was in vain. I was fascinated by her large blue eyes, which looked out upon me with that calm, childlike innocence, and remaining beneath their spell, believed that I loved her.

The mystery with which she had surrounded herself was remarkable. Her refusal to allow me to call upon her, or even to write, was strange, yet her excuse that her aunt would be annoyed was plausible enough.

Compelled, therefore, to await her visit, I remained from day to day anxious to meet her because I loved her.

On entering the club one afternoon I found Roddy alone in the smoking-room, writing a letter.

“Well!” he cried, merrily, gripping my hand. “How goes it—and how’s your little mystery going on?”

I sank into a chair close to him and told him of Aline’s visit.

“And you’re clean gone on her—eh?” he queried.

I shrugged my shoulders and gave him a vague reply.

“Well, take care,” he said in a serious tone. “If I were you I’d find out who and what she is. She might be some adventuress or other.”

“Do you suspect her to be an adventuress?” I inquired quickly.

“My dear fellow, how can I tell? There seems to me something rather shady about her, that’s all.”

I pondered. Yes, he spoke the truth. There was something shady about her. She would tell me absolutely nothing of herself.

We smoked together for half an hour, then parted, for he was compelled to go down to the House, as a dutiful legislator should.

A week passed yet I saw not Aline, nor had any word from her. From day to day I existed in all anxiety to once again look upon that face so angelic in its beauty and so pure in expression. Indeed, more than once I felt inclined to break the promise I had made her and call at Ellerdale Road, but I refrained, fearing lest such a course might annoy her.

One evening, a fortnight after she had visited me, I was walking along the Bayswater Road towards Oxford Street, skirting the railings of Hyde Park, when suddenly I noticed before me two figures, a man and a woman. They were walking slowly, deep in conversation.

In an instant I recognised the slim, perfect figure in the black jacket and black hat as that of Aline, and drew back to escape observation.

Her companion was tall, thin, and rather ill-dressed. As they passed beneath a street-lamp I discerned that he was about forty, with lank black hair, a long black moustache, and a sallow, bony face—a countenance the reverse of prepossessing. His silk hat had seen better days, his frock-coat was tightly buttoned for warmth, as he had no overcoat, and his boots were sadly run down at heel. As this seedy individual walked beside her she was speaking rapidly, while he, bonding to her, was listening intently.

The meeting was such an unexpected one that at first I was at a loss what to do. Next moment, however, with the fire of jealousy aroused within me, I resolved to follow them and watch. They strolled slowly along until they came to Victoria Gate, and then turned into the Park, at that hour dark and deserted. I noticed that as they entered she took his arm, and it appeared as if they were going in the direction of Grosvenor Gate, which leads out into Park Lane; for they crossed the Ring, and continued straight ahead along the tree-lined avenue. But few lights were there, so following at a respectable distance, I managed to keep them in sight.

Soon, however, they rested upon a seat at foot of a great old beech, and continued their conversation. I had, of course, a keen desire to learn the nature of this exchange of confidences, but the problem was how to approach sufficiently near and yet escape observation. At first I was inclined to relinquish my endeavours, but suddenly it occurred to me that I might get over the railing on to the grass, and in the darkness approach noiselessly behind the tree where they were seated.

Therefore, turning back some distance to a bend in the path, where they could not detect me, I sprang over the iron fencing, and treading softly, cautiously made my way up behind them, until I actually stood behind the tree within three yards of them, but with the railing between us.

Then, scarce daring to breathe, I waited to catch their words. Of this shabby-genteel fellow, evidently her lover, I was madly jealous; but my anger was instantly changed to surprise when I heard the nature of their conversation.

“But you must!” he was saying earnestly.

“I tell you, I won’t!” she answered decisively. “The risk is too great—far too great.”

“But as I’ve already told you, it’s absolutely imperative.”

He spoke roughly, but with a refinement which showed him to be educated. He bore outward evidence of having come down in the world.

“I wouldn’t act like that if I were offered a thousand pounds,” she declared.

“But it must be done,” he urged.

“Not by me.”

“Do you intend to back out, then?” he inquired roughly.

“I merely tell you plainly that you and your ruffianly associates have gone quite far enough. That’s all,” she answered calmly. Her words were not those which a woman usually uses towards her lover.

He gave vent to a short, brutal laugh, as if enjoying her indignation.

“It’s all very well to talk like this, Aline,” he said; “but you know quite well that argument is useless. You must do it.”

“I will not, I tell you!” she cried fiercely.

“Well, we shall see,” he answered. “Recollect that you are one of us, and as such, to break away is impossible.”

“I know that, only too well,” she answered bitterly. “But it is terrible—horrible! As each day passes I am more and more convinced that the truth must soon be discovered.”

“And if it is?”

“I will never live to bear the exposure,” she said, in the hoarse, low voice of one desperate.

“My dear girl,” he exclaimed, “you who have beauty and a plausible tongue have the world before you; yet you always refuse to seize your opportunity. You who possess the power of the King of Evil, whose touch is deadly and whose caress is venomous, could rule an empire if you wished; yet you are inert, lethargic, and refuse to assist us, even in this.”

“I will not sin deeper than I have already sinned,” she answered. “I will have no hand in it.”

“Why not?”

“It is horrible!” she protested. “And I tell you, once and for all, that I will have nothing to do with the affair.”

“You’re a fool!” he cried roughly.

“True! I am, or I would never have fallen thus into the trap you and your friends baited so cunningly.”

“You are beautiful!” he answered, with a harsh laugh. “A beautiful woman is always a safe trap for fools.”

“If men admire me I cannot help it; if they love me then it is against my wish, for since that day long ago, when the Spirit of Evil entered into me, love has known no place in my heart.”

“Well spoken!” he exclaimed. “If you have no love for him the rest is quite easy.”

“Though all love within me is dead, I yet have a woman’s heart, and womanly feeling,” she said. “I know that my beauty is only a curse; I am well aware that men who have admired me have been drawn irresistibly to their doom. Ah!” and she shuddered in shame, “it is terrible—terrible!”

“Yet why should you regret?” he queried. “You are not of their world; you have nothing in common with them. You have been given beauty, the most marvellous, perhaps, in all the world; diabolic beauty, which causes you to be remarked wherever you go; which has caused the downfall of the upright, and has wrecked the lives of those who trust in the guardian Spirit of Good.”

“Yes, I know,” she answered quickly. “Yet I am tired of it all. I am aware that my power for the working of evil among my fellow-creatures is greater than that of any other person of flesh and blood; that at my touch objects held sacred are defiled and consumed, that sight of my face may cause a veritable saint to turn from his asceticism and become an evil-doer. All this I know, alas! All this is due to the influence of evil, which once I might have striven against, had I wished.”

“You possess thebeauté du Diable,” he said. “Are you not the daughter of Satan?”

“If I am I decline to commit any further crime at your bidding,” she answered, with indignation. “You have held me enthralled until now, but I tell you that you have strained the bond until it will ere long break. Then I shall be free.”

“I’m pleased that you have such pleasant anticipations,” he replied. “A woman who once gives herself over to the Evil One can never regain her freedom.”

“But she can refuse to increase the enormity of her sin by committing crime at the bidding of the man who holds her beneath his thrall,” she answered.

“You know what such refusal means?” he said in a threatening tone.

“Yes—death. Well, I do not fear it. Within me a new love has been awakened. I now love for the first time in all my life.”

“Yet you have already said that in your heart love knows no place.”

“I tell you I love him!” she cried. “He shall not suffer!”

She was evidently referring to me. I held my breath, eager to catch every syllable. Perhaps this man was urging her to kill me!

“The power you possess to work evil is irresistible,” he said briefly.

“Alas! I know it,” she answered. “Those with whom I am in daily contact little dream of who or what I really am, or they would shun me as they would shun a leper.”

“Why should they?” her bony-faced companion asked. “Evil has been dominant in the world for all ages, and the Prince of Darkness has still the ascendency!”

“But is not mine the blackest—the foulest of all crimes?” she shuddered.

“Only one touch,” he urged. “Your hand is fatal.”

“Ah! why do you taunt me thus?” she cried. “Is it not enough that I should be degraded and outcast, overburdened by sin for which I cannot hope for forgiveness, and that my position should be irretrievably lost? Is it not enough that in me all the evils of the world are concentrated, and that I am shut out from happiness for ever?”

“You had your choice,” the man answered. “It is true that you are one unique among the millions of your fellow-creatures. The blackness of your heart is concealed by the purity of your face, and your real being so disguised that none suspect. If your real identity were discovered some prophets would declare that the end of the world was near.” And he laughed coarsely.

“Yes, yes,” she cried quickly. “But do not taunt me. I know too well the far-reaching influence which emanates from me, and the fatal effect of my touch upon all that is held sacred by those who believe in the Supreme. I have striven to do good, and have only wrought evil; I have been charitable, and my efforts have only resulted in bringing disaster upon the needy. Those whom I thought to benefit have rewarded me by curses, because all that I do is the work of the wicked. I have struggled to lead a double life, and have failed. I have tried to counterbalance the evil I am compelled to achieve by doing good works such as might endear me in the eyes of those who believe in the Supreme; but all, alas, has been in vain—all futile. I am now convinced that in my heart there can remain no good feeling, no womanly love, no charitableness towards my fellows.”

“It is only what might be expected,” he said in a dry tone. “Your great beauty is given you to cover your heart. You are soulless.”

“Yes,” she cried. “That is true—only too true. I have no soul, no conscience, no regret!”

She spoke in a hard tone, as though utterly wearied of life. Her voice had lost its music, and her speech was of one in blank despair.

“If you are without regret, then what I have suggested is the more easy of accomplishment,” he said, in a low intense voice. “Remember that no power on earth can withstand your influence.”

“I will not!” she cried, starting up in fierce determination. “Through your evil counsel I have already wrought that which I shall ever regret,” she went on. “I have placed myself beneath the thraldom irrevocably, and have brought upon those who admired me a doom which has destroyed their happiness and wrecked their lives. I have now a lover—a man who, because of my good looks, is infatuated, as others have been.”

“It has been decided!” her companion said, with a calmness that was appalling.

“But I love him!” she declared. “I myself will be his protector!”

“You intend to defy the resolution which has been arrived at?”

“I have no intention of committing further sin,” she said. “I may be an evil-doer and one of the accursed, but none shall say that I deliberately acted in such manner towards one who became fascinated by my beauty. Rather would I disfigure my face by burns or acid in order to render myself ugly and unattractive.”

“No woman would do that of her own free will,” he laughed.

“No ordinary woman could,” she said. “But recollect who I am. Reflect upon my far-reaching influence for evil—an influence which is felt throughout this kingdom. I tell you that rather than continue I would kill myself.”

The man laughed aloud.

“I admit all that,” he said. “If the people of London knew the truth they would, I believe, tear you limb from limb. But they are ignorant; therefore you are but an ordinary girl of more than extraordinary beauty.”

“Which means that my beauty will always ruin those upon whom I may bestow a glance. As my touch is fatal to certain objects of adoration, so is my love-look fatal to those who admire me. No,” she added, after a brief pause, “I have determined to act as this man’s protector, instead of his destroyer.”

“You are relenting,” he observed with sarcasm. “Soon you will proclaim your repentance.”

“No!” she cried fiercely. “I shall never repent, because of you. To you I owe the major part of this evil of which I am possessed, and to you—”

“It was your choice,” he interrupted, with a brutal laugh. “You accepted the challenge, and gave your soul to the Evil One. Why blame me?”

“At your instigation,” she went on in fierce anger. “To the world I am a pure, ingenuous girl; yet beneath this veil of virtue and purity I work these veritable miracles of evil, possessing a power which ofttimes appals me, an irresistible influence that nothing can withstand. I am unique in the world as possessing this superhuman faculty of being able to impart evil to those with whom I come into contact, be they pure as angels. You taunt me,” she added. “But some day you will crave mercy of me, and then I will show you none—none! I will be hard-hearted as flint—as relentless as you are to-night!”

“You wish to break away from the compact, but you shall not,” the man said firmly, between his teeth. “If you prefer defiance, well and good. But I merely point out that obedience is best.”

She paused. She was, I surmised, deep in reflection.

“Very well,” at last she answered, in a hoarse, unnatural voice. “Now that I have sunk so low I suppose it is impossible to sink further. But recollect that this same influence that I will exert over this, my latest victim, I will one day exert over you. I warn you. One day ere long you will crave pity at my feet.”

“Never from you,” the man said, with a short defiant laugh.

“I have only prophesied once before,” she answered meaningly. “Whether or no that came true you are well aware. In this world of London I am, as yet, unknown, but when the true facts are known this great metropolis will stand aghast in terror. Our positions will then be reversed. You will be the victim, and I triumphant.”

“Proceed,” he laughed. “All this is intensely interesting.”

There was a pause, longer than before.

“Then you declare that I must do this thing?” she asked, in a strange, hollow voice, the voice of one dismayed.

“Yes,” her companion answered; “you must—swiftly and secretly. It is imperative.”

Without further word she rose slowly to her feet, and staggered away down the gravelled path, while her companion, hesitating for a few seconds, rose with a muttered imprecation and strode along after her. A moment later they were out of hearing.

The remainder of their extraordinary conversation was lost to me.

One suspicion alone possessed me. That thin, shabby man had sentenced me to death.

Chapter Six.Two Mysteries.The discovery I had accidentally made was the reverse of reassuring.Aline had admitted herself possessed of some mysterious power which caused sacred objects to consume, the power of evil which she feared would also fall upon me. I recollected how when she had visited me she had urged me to hate her rather than love her, and I now discerned the reason. She had feared lest her subtle influence upon me should be fatal.Through the days which passed her strange words rang ever through my ears. She was a woman unique in all the world; a woman who, living in teeming London, was endowed with faculties of abnormal proportions, and possessed an unearthly power utterly unknown to modern science. I thought of the fusing of my crucifix and my Madonna, and shuddered. Her beauty was amazing, but she was a veritable temptress, a deistical daughter of Apollyon.My first feeling after leaving the Park was one of repugnance; yet on reflection I found myself overcome by fascination, still bewitched by her beautiful face, and eager to meet her once again. Surely nothing maleficent could remain hidden beneath such outward innocence?Thus I waited long and wearily for her coming, remaining in from day to day, or whenever I went out leaving word with Simes as to where I could be found if she called. In my turbulent state of mind I imagined many strange things.The more I reflected, the more complicated became the enigma.At length one morning Simes opened my door suddenly and ushered her in. I flung down my newspaper and rose to meet her, but next instant drew back in surprise and alarm.She was dressed in an elegant costume of pale grey trimmed with white lace and heavy embroidery of pearls, a dress which could only have been turned out by a first-class house, for it bore a Parisian chic, being modelled in latest style. Her tiny shoes and gloves were of grey suede to match the dress, and beneath her big black hat with ostrich feathers her face looked sweet and winning as a child’s.But the flush of health had faded. Her cheeks were just as beautiful as they had ever been, but the bloom of youth had died from them, and her complexion was a yellowish brown, like that of a woman of sixty. The light in her blue eyes had faded; they were now dull and leaden.“At last!” I cried happily. “I am so glad you’ve come, for I’ve waited so long, Aline.”She allowed her hand to rest in mine, then sank wearily into my armchair without a word.“You are not well,” I cried, in concern. “What ails you?”“Nothing!” she gasped. “It is nothing. In a few minutes it will pass.” Then she added, as if on second thought, “Perhaps it was your stairs. The lift is out of order.” And she rested her head upon the back of the chair and looked up at me with pitying eyes.All life had apparently gone out of her beautiful face. That vivacity that had attracted me had given place to a deep, thoughtful look, as though she were in momentary fear. Her face seemed blanched to the lips.“May I get you something?” I asked. “Let me give you some brandy,” and taking the bottle from the tantalus I gave her a liqueur-glass full of cognac, which she swallowed at one gulp.“Why have you not called before?” I inquired, when, at length, she grew less agitated. “I have expected you daily for so long.”“I’ve been away in the country,” she answered. “But do not think that I have not remembered you.”“Nearly three weeks have gone by since you were last here,” I said. “It is too cruel of you not to allow me to write to you.”“No,” she said decisively, “you must not write. You have already promised me, and I know you will not break any compact you make.”“But I love you, Aline,” I whispered, bending forward to her.“Yes, alas! I know that,” she responded, rousing herself. “Yet, why carry this folly further?”“Folly you call it?” I exclaimed regretfully. “Because you cannot love me in return you tell me I am foolish. Since you have been absent I have examined my own heart, and I swear that my love is more than mere admiration. I think of no one in the world besides yourself.”“No, no,” she said uneasily. “There is some other woman whom you could love far better, a woman who would make you a true and faithful wife.”“But I can love no one else.”“Try,” she answered, looking me straight in the face. “Before we met you loved one who reciprocated your affection.”“Who?”“You wish me to tell you?” she replied in a hard, bitter tone. “Surely you cannot affect ignorance that you are loved by Muriel Moore?”“Muriel!” I gasped in amazement. “How did you know?”She smiled.“There is but little that escapes me,” she answered. “You loved each other before our romantic meeting, and I, the woman who must necessarily bring evil upon you, have come to separate you. Yet you calmly stand by and invite me to wreck your life! Ah! you cannot know who I am, or you would cast me from your thoughts for over.”“Then who are you?” I blurted forth, in blank amazement.“I have already told you. You have, of your own free will, united yourself with me by a declaration of love, and the consequences are therefore upon your own head.”“Cannot you love like other women?” I demanded. “Have you no heart, no feeling, no soul?”“No,” she sighed. “Love is forbidden me. Hatred takes its place; a fierce, deadly hatred, in which vengeance is untempered by justice, and fatality is always inevitable. Now that I confess, will you not cast me aside? I have come here to you to urge you to do this ere it is too late.”“You speak so strangely that I’m bewildered,” I declared. “I have told you of my love, and will not relinquish you.”“But for the sake of the woman who loves you. She will break her heart.”“Muriel does not love me,” I answered. “I have spoken no word of affection to her. We were friends—that is all.”“Reflect! Is it possible for a girl in such a position as Muriel Moore to be your friend without loving you! You are wealthy, she is poor. You give her dinners with champagne at the gayest restaurants; you take her to stalls at theatres, or to a box at the Alhambra; you invite her to these rooms, where she drinks tea, and plays your piano; and it is all so different from her humdrum life at Madame Gabrielle’s. Place yourself for one moment in her position, with a salary of ten shillings a-week and dresses provided by the establishment, leading a life of wearying monotony from nine in the morning till seven at night, trying on bonnets, and persuading ignorant, inartistic women to buy your wares. Would you not be flattered, nay, dazzled, by all these attentions which you show her? Would you not become convinced that your admirer loved you if he troubled himself so much about you?”Her argument was plain and forcible. I had never regarded the matter in that light.“Really, Aline,” I said, “I’m beginning to think that you are possessed of some power that is supernatural.”She laughed—a laugh that sounded strangely hollow.“I tell you this—I argue with you for your own sake, to save you from the danger which now encompasses you. I would be your protector because you trust me so implicitly, only that is impossible.”In an instant I recollected her declaration to her bony-faced companion in the Park. Had she actually resolved to kill me?“Why should I relinquish you in favour of one for whom I have no affection?” I argued.“Why should you kiss the hand that must smite you?” she asked.Her lips were bloodless; her face of ashen pallor.“You are not yourself to-day,” I said. “It is not usual for a woman who is loved to speak as you speak. The love of a man is usually flattering to a woman.”“I have come to save you, and have spoken plainly.”“What, then, have I done that I deserve punishment?” I inquired in breathless eagerness.“You love me.”“Surely the simple offence of being your lover is not punishable by death?”“Alas! it is,” she answered hoarsely. “Compelled as I am to preserve my secret, I cannot explain to you. Yet, if I could, the facts would prove so astounding that you would refuse to believe them. Only the graves of those who have loved me—some of them nameless—are sufficient proof of the fatality I bring upon those whom my beauty entrances.”She raised her head, and her eyes encountered a photograph standing on a table in the window. It was Roddy’s.“See there!” she said, starting, raising her hand and pointing to it. “Like yourself, that man loved me, and has paid the penalty. He died abroad.”“No,” I replied quickly. “You are mistaken. That picture is the portrait of a friend; and he’s certainly not dead, for he was here smoking with me last night.”“Not dead!” she cried, starting up and crossing to it. “Why, he died at Monte Carlo. He committed suicide after losing all he had.”“No,” I replied, rather amused. “That is the Honourable Roderick Morgan, member of Parliament.”“Yes, that was the name,” she said aloud to herself. “Roddy Morgan they called him. He lost seven thousand pounds in one day at roulette.”“He has never to my knowledge been to Monte Carlo,” I observed, standing beside her.“You’ve not always accompanied him everywhere he has been, I presume?” she said.“No, but had he been to Monte Carlo he would certainly have told me.”“Men do not care to speak of losses when they are as absurdly reckless as he was.”The idea that Roddy had committed suicide at Monte Carlo seemed utterly absurd, nevertheless in order to convince her that he was still very much alive I picked up the paper and pointed to his name in the Parliamentary debate of the previous night.“It is strange, very strange!” she said, reflecting. “I was in the Rooms when he shot himself. While sitting at one of the tables I saw them carry him away dead.”“You must have made some mistake,” I suggested.“I was playing at the same table, and he continued to love me, although I had warned him of the consequences, as I have now warned you. He lost and lost. Each time he played he lost, till every farthing he possessed had gone. Then I turned away, but ere I had left the room there was the sound of a pistol-shot, and he fell across the table dead.”She had the photograph in her hand, and bent to the light, examining it closely.“It cannot be the same man,” I said.“Yes, it is,” she responded. “There can be no mistake, for the ring which secures his cravat is mine. I gave it to him.”I looked, and there sure enough was an antique ring of curious pattern, through which his soft scarf was threaded.“It is Etruscan,” she said. “I picked it up in a shop in Bologna.”I glanced quickly at her. Her face was that of a girl of twenty; yet her speech was that of a woman of the world who had travelled and become utterly weary. The more I saw of her the more puzzled I became.“Then if the man you knew was the original of that photograph he certainly is not dead. If you wish, I will send my man for him.”“Ah, no!” she cried, putting up her hand in quick alarm. “He has suffered enough—I have suffered enough. No, no; we must not meet—we cannot. I tell you he is dead—and his body lies unmarked in the suicides’ cemetery at Monte Carlo.”I shrugged my shoulders, declaring that my statement should be sufficient to convince her.Quickly, however, she turned to me, and with her gloved hand upon my arm, besought me to release her.“Hate me!” she implored. “Go to your friend, if he really is alive as you declare, and ask of him my character—who and what I am.”“I shall never hate you—I cannot!” I declared, bending again towards her and seeking her hand, but she instantly withdrew it, looking into my face with an expression of annoyance.“You disbelieve me!” she said.“All that you say is so bewildering that I know not what to believe,” I answered.“In this room you have, I suppose, discovered certain objects reduced to ashes?” she asked in a hoarse tone.“Yes, I have,” I answered breathlessly.“Then let them be sufficient to illustrate the influence of evil which lies within me,” she answered, and after a pause suddenly added: “I came here to fulfil that which the irresistible power has decreed; but I will leave you to reflect. If you have regard for me, then hate me. Transfer your affections to Muriel Moore, the woman who really loves you; the woman who weeps because you refrain from caressing her; the woman who is wearing out her life because of you.”She held her breath, her lips trembled and her hands quivered, as though the effort of speaking had been too great.“I love you!” I cried. “I cannot forget you, Aline. I adore you!”“No, no!” she said, holding up both her hands. “Enough! I only pray that the evil I dread may not befall you. Farewell!” and bowing low she turned, and swept out of the room, leaving me alone, bewildered, dumbfounded.The words she had uttered were completely confounding. She was apparently possessed of attainments which were supernatural; indeed, she seemed to me as a visitant from the Unknown, so strangely had she spoken; so mysterious had been her allegations regarding Roddy.For nearly an hour I remained deep in thought, plunged in abject despair. Aline the beautiful had left me, urging me to transfer my affections. The situation was extraordinary. She had, it seemed, gone out of my life for ever.Suddenly I roused myself. Her extraordinary statement that Roddy had committed suicide at Monte Carlo oppressed me. If she really knew Muriel’s innermost thoughts, then it was quite feasible that she knew more of my friend than I had imagined. Besides, had he not left the theatre hurriedly on catching sight of her? There was a mystery which should be elucidated. Therefore I assumed my hat and coat and went round to Roddy’s chambers in Dover Street, Piccadilly, to endeavour to obtain some explanation of her amazing statement.He lived in one of those smoke-blackened, old-fashioned houses with deep areas, residences which were occupied by families fifty years ago, but now mostly let out as suites of chambers. The front door with its inner swing-door was, as usual, open, and I passed through and up the stairs to the second floor, where upon the door was a small brass plate bearing my friend’s name.The door was ajar, and pushing it open I walked in, exclaiming cheerily as was my habit—“Anybody at home?”There was no response. Roddy was out, and his man had evidently gone downstairs to obtain something. I walked straight on into the sitting-room, a good-sized, comfortable apartment, which smelt eternally of cigars, for its owner was an inveterate smoker; but as I entered I was surprised to discover Roddy in his old velvet lounge-coat, sitting alone in his chair beside the fire.“Morning, old chap!” I cried. But he was asleep and did not move.I crossed the room and shook him by the shoulder to awaken him, at the same moment looking into his face.It was unusually pale.In an instant a terrible thought flashed across my mind, and I bent eagerly towards him. He was not asleep, for his eyes were still wide-open, although his chin had sunk upon his breast.I placed my hand quickly upon his heart, but could detect no movement. I touched his cheek. It was still warm. But his eyes told the appalling truth. They were bloodshot, stony, discoloured, and already glazing. The hideous, astounding fact could not be disguised.Roddy Morgan was dead!

The discovery I had accidentally made was the reverse of reassuring.

Aline had admitted herself possessed of some mysterious power which caused sacred objects to consume, the power of evil which she feared would also fall upon me. I recollected how when she had visited me she had urged me to hate her rather than love her, and I now discerned the reason. She had feared lest her subtle influence upon me should be fatal.

Through the days which passed her strange words rang ever through my ears. She was a woman unique in all the world; a woman who, living in teeming London, was endowed with faculties of abnormal proportions, and possessed an unearthly power utterly unknown to modern science. I thought of the fusing of my crucifix and my Madonna, and shuddered. Her beauty was amazing, but she was a veritable temptress, a deistical daughter of Apollyon.

My first feeling after leaving the Park was one of repugnance; yet on reflection I found myself overcome by fascination, still bewitched by her beautiful face, and eager to meet her once again. Surely nothing maleficent could remain hidden beneath such outward innocence?

Thus I waited long and wearily for her coming, remaining in from day to day, or whenever I went out leaving word with Simes as to where I could be found if she called. In my turbulent state of mind I imagined many strange things.

The more I reflected, the more complicated became the enigma.

At length one morning Simes opened my door suddenly and ushered her in. I flung down my newspaper and rose to meet her, but next instant drew back in surprise and alarm.

She was dressed in an elegant costume of pale grey trimmed with white lace and heavy embroidery of pearls, a dress which could only have been turned out by a first-class house, for it bore a Parisian chic, being modelled in latest style. Her tiny shoes and gloves were of grey suede to match the dress, and beneath her big black hat with ostrich feathers her face looked sweet and winning as a child’s.

But the flush of health had faded. Her cheeks were just as beautiful as they had ever been, but the bloom of youth had died from them, and her complexion was a yellowish brown, like that of a woman of sixty. The light in her blue eyes had faded; they were now dull and leaden.

“At last!” I cried happily. “I am so glad you’ve come, for I’ve waited so long, Aline.”

She allowed her hand to rest in mine, then sank wearily into my armchair without a word.

“You are not well,” I cried, in concern. “What ails you?”

“Nothing!” she gasped. “It is nothing. In a few minutes it will pass.” Then she added, as if on second thought, “Perhaps it was your stairs. The lift is out of order.” And she rested her head upon the back of the chair and looked up at me with pitying eyes.

All life had apparently gone out of her beautiful face. That vivacity that had attracted me had given place to a deep, thoughtful look, as though she were in momentary fear. Her face seemed blanched to the lips.

“May I get you something?” I asked. “Let me give you some brandy,” and taking the bottle from the tantalus I gave her a liqueur-glass full of cognac, which she swallowed at one gulp.

“Why have you not called before?” I inquired, when, at length, she grew less agitated. “I have expected you daily for so long.”

“I’ve been away in the country,” she answered. “But do not think that I have not remembered you.”

“Nearly three weeks have gone by since you were last here,” I said. “It is too cruel of you not to allow me to write to you.”

“No,” she said decisively, “you must not write. You have already promised me, and I know you will not break any compact you make.”

“But I love you, Aline,” I whispered, bending forward to her.

“Yes, alas! I know that,” she responded, rousing herself. “Yet, why carry this folly further?”

“Folly you call it?” I exclaimed regretfully. “Because you cannot love me in return you tell me I am foolish. Since you have been absent I have examined my own heart, and I swear that my love is more than mere admiration. I think of no one in the world besides yourself.”

“No, no,” she said uneasily. “There is some other woman whom you could love far better, a woman who would make you a true and faithful wife.”

“But I can love no one else.”

“Try,” she answered, looking me straight in the face. “Before we met you loved one who reciprocated your affection.”

“Who?”

“You wish me to tell you?” she replied in a hard, bitter tone. “Surely you cannot affect ignorance that you are loved by Muriel Moore?”

“Muriel!” I gasped in amazement. “How did you know?”

She smiled.

“There is but little that escapes me,” she answered. “You loved each other before our romantic meeting, and I, the woman who must necessarily bring evil upon you, have come to separate you. Yet you calmly stand by and invite me to wreck your life! Ah! you cannot know who I am, or you would cast me from your thoughts for over.”

“Then who are you?” I blurted forth, in blank amazement.

“I have already told you. You have, of your own free will, united yourself with me by a declaration of love, and the consequences are therefore upon your own head.”

“Cannot you love like other women?” I demanded. “Have you no heart, no feeling, no soul?”

“No,” she sighed. “Love is forbidden me. Hatred takes its place; a fierce, deadly hatred, in which vengeance is untempered by justice, and fatality is always inevitable. Now that I confess, will you not cast me aside? I have come here to you to urge you to do this ere it is too late.”

“You speak so strangely that I’m bewildered,” I declared. “I have told you of my love, and will not relinquish you.”

“But for the sake of the woman who loves you. She will break her heart.”

“Muriel does not love me,” I answered. “I have spoken no word of affection to her. We were friends—that is all.”

“Reflect! Is it possible for a girl in such a position as Muriel Moore to be your friend without loving you! You are wealthy, she is poor. You give her dinners with champagne at the gayest restaurants; you take her to stalls at theatres, or to a box at the Alhambra; you invite her to these rooms, where she drinks tea, and plays your piano; and it is all so different from her humdrum life at Madame Gabrielle’s. Place yourself for one moment in her position, with a salary of ten shillings a-week and dresses provided by the establishment, leading a life of wearying monotony from nine in the morning till seven at night, trying on bonnets, and persuading ignorant, inartistic women to buy your wares. Would you not be flattered, nay, dazzled, by all these attentions which you show her? Would you not become convinced that your admirer loved you if he troubled himself so much about you?”

Her argument was plain and forcible. I had never regarded the matter in that light.

“Really, Aline,” I said, “I’m beginning to think that you are possessed of some power that is supernatural.”

She laughed—a laugh that sounded strangely hollow.

“I tell you this—I argue with you for your own sake, to save you from the danger which now encompasses you. I would be your protector because you trust me so implicitly, only that is impossible.”

In an instant I recollected her declaration to her bony-faced companion in the Park. Had she actually resolved to kill me?

“Why should I relinquish you in favour of one for whom I have no affection?” I argued.

“Why should you kiss the hand that must smite you?” she asked.

Her lips were bloodless; her face of ashen pallor.

“You are not yourself to-day,” I said. “It is not usual for a woman who is loved to speak as you speak. The love of a man is usually flattering to a woman.”

“I have come to save you, and have spoken plainly.”

“What, then, have I done that I deserve punishment?” I inquired in breathless eagerness.

“You love me.”

“Surely the simple offence of being your lover is not punishable by death?”

“Alas! it is,” she answered hoarsely. “Compelled as I am to preserve my secret, I cannot explain to you. Yet, if I could, the facts would prove so astounding that you would refuse to believe them. Only the graves of those who have loved me—some of them nameless—are sufficient proof of the fatality I bring upon those whom my beauty entrances.”

She raised her head, and her eyes encountered a photograph standing on a table in the window. It was Roddy’s.

“See there!” she said, starting, raising her hand and pointing to it. “Like yourself, that man loved me, and has paid the penalty. He died abroad.”

“No,” I replied quickly. “You are mistaken. That picture is the portrait of a friend; and he’s certainly not dead, for he was here smoking with me last night.”

“Not dead!” she cried, starting up and crossing to it. “Why, he died at Monte Carlo. He committed suicide after losing all he had.”

“No,” I replied, rather amused. “That is the Honourable Roderick Morgan, member of Parliament.”

“Yes, that was the name,” she said aloud to herself. “Roddy Morgan they called him. He lost seven thousand pounds in one day at roulette.”

“He has never to my knowledge been to Monte Carlo,” I observed, standing beside her.

“You’ve not always accompanied him everywhere he has been, I presume?” she said.

“No, but had he been to Monte Carlo he would certainly have told me.”

“Men do not care to speak of losses when they are as absurdly reckless as he was.”

The idea that Roddy had committed suicide at Monte Carlo seemed utterly absurd, nevertheless in order to convince her that he was still very much alive I picked up the paper and pointed to his name in the Parliamentary debate of the previous night.

“It is strange, very strange!” she said, reflecting. “I was in the Rooms when he shot himself. While sitting at one of the tables I saw them carry him away dead.”

“You must have made some mistake,” I suggested.

“I was playing at the same table, and he continued to love me, although I had warned him of the consequences, as I have now warned you. He lost and lost. Each time he played he lost, till every farthing he possessed had gone. Then I turned away, but ere I had left the room there was the sound of a pistol-shot, and he fell across the table dead.”

She had the photograph in her hand, and bent to the light, examining it closely.

“It cannot be the same man,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” she responded. “There can be no mistake, for the ring which secures his cravat is mine. I gave it to him.”

I looked, and there sure enough was an antique ring of curious pattern, through which his soft scarf was threaded.

“It is Etruscan,” she said. “I picked it up in a shop in Bologna.”

I glanced quickly at her. Her face was that of a girl of twenty; yet her speech was that of a woman of the world who had travelled and become utterly weary. The more I saw of her the more puzzled I became.

“Then if the man you knew was the original of that photograph he certainly is not dead. If you wish, I will send my man for him.”

“Ah, no!” she cried, putting up her hand in quick alarm. “He has suffered enough—I have suffered enough. No, no; we must not meet—we cannot. I tell you he is dead—and his body lies unmarked in the suicides’ cemetery at Monte Carlo.”

I shrugged my shoulders, declaring that my statement should be sufficient to convince her.

Quickly, however, she turned to me, and with her gloved hand upon my arm, besought me to release her.

“Hate me!” she implored. “Go to your friend, if he really is alive as you declare, and ask of him my character—who and what I am.”

“I shall never hate you—I cannot!” I declared, bending again towards her and seeking her hand, but she instantly withdrew it, looking into my face with an expression of annoyance.

“You disbelieve me!” she said.

“All that you say is so bewildering that I know not what to believe,” I answered.

“In this room you have, I suppose, discovered certain objects reduced to ashes?” she asked in a hoarse tone.

“Yes, I have,” I answered breathlessly.

“Then let them be sufficient to illustrate the influence of evil which lies within me,” she answered, and after a pause suddenly added: “I came here to fulfil that which the irresistible power has decreed; but I will leave you to reflect. If you have regard for me, then hate me. Transfer your affections to Muriel Moore, the woman who really loves you; the woman who weeps because you refrain from caressing her; the woman who is wearing out her life because of you.”

She held her breath, her lips trembled and her hands quivered, as though the effort of speaking had been too great.

“I love you!” I cried. “I cannot forget you, Aline. I adore you!”

“No, no!” she said, holding up both her hands. “Enough! I only pray that the evil I dread may not befall you. Farewell!” and bowing low she turned, and swept out of the room, leaving me alone, bewildered, dumbfounded.

The words she had uttered were completely confounding. She was apparently possessed of attainments which were supernatural; indeed, she seemed to me as a visitant from the Unknown, so strangely had she spoken; so mysterious had been her allegations regarding Roddy.

For nearly an hour I remained deep in thought, plunged in abject despair. Aline the beautiful had left me, urging me to transfer my affections. The situation was extraordinary. She had, it seemed, gone out of my life for ever.

Suddenly I roused myself. Her extraordinary statement that Roddy had committed suicide at Monte Carlo oppressed me. If she really knew Muriel’s innermost thoughts, then it was quite feasible that she knew more of my friend than I had imagined. Besides, had he not left the theatre hurriedly on catching sight of her? There was a mystery which should be elucidated. Therefore I assumed my hat and coat and went round to Roddy’s chambers in Dover Street, Piccadilly, to endeavour to obtain some explanation of her amazing statement.

He lived in one of those smoke-blackened, old-fashioned houses with deep areas, residences which were occupied by families fifty years ago, but now mostly let out as suites of chambers. The front door with its inner swing-door was, as usual, open, and I passed through and up the stairs to the second floor, where upon the door was a small brass plate bearing my friend’s name.

The door was ajar, and pushing it open I walked in, exclaiming cheerily as was my habit—

“Anybody at home?”

There was no response. Roddy was out, and his man had evidently gone downstairs to obtain something. I walked straight on into the sitting-room, a good-sized, comfortable apartment, which smelt eternally of cigars, for its owner was an inveterate smoker; but as I entered I was surprised to discover Roddy in his old velvet lounge-coat, sitting alone in his chair beside the fire.

“Morning, old chap!” I cried. But he was asleep and did not move.

I crossed the room and shook him by the shoulder to awaken him, at the same moment looking into his face.

It was unusually pale.

In an instant a terrible thought flashed across my mind, and I bent eagerly towards him. He was not asleep, for his eyes were still wide-open, although his chin had sunk upon his breast.

I placed my hand quickly upon his heart, but could detect no movement. I touched his cheek. It was still warm. But his eyes told the appalling truth. They were bloodshot, stony, discoloured, and already glazing. The hideous, astounding fact could not be disguised.

Roddy Morgan was dead!

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