"If I did, what then?"

"Then--you would not be permitted to leave these premises!"

"Ah! you have spies in this house!"

"Yes; and out of it. There is no chance for you to escape. There is no chance for any one to escape. Mrs. Arthur, is this man that you call your brother really such, or is he, too, in your plot?"

Cora looked at her keenly, but it was no part of Madeline's plan to let her know that she had ever seen Lucian Davlin before that evening.

Her face was as calm and inscrutable as the face of the sphinx.

"No," said Cora, at length "my brother does not know of it."

"I am glad of that," replied Madeline. "But, for fear of any deception, he will be kept under _surveillance_; and if anything is communicated to him I shall surely know it."

"Why did you rob me of those papers?" asked Cora, abruptly.

"Because," said Madeline, leaning forward, "you and I have a common enemy."

"What! not Percy?"

"Yes, Percy!"

Cora looked amazed. "But--have you known him before?"

"I never saw him until he came to Oakley."

"I can't see how he has incurred your enmity here."

"He has not incurred my enmity here. I hated him before I ever saw him."

"Why?"

"Because he has wronged a friend who is as dear to me as life."

"Oh!"

"Don't puzzle your brain over this; you won't be enlightened. It is sufficient for you to know that you can serve me if you choose, because we are both enemies of the same men." Then, rising, "Now choose; will you remain here as my ally, or leave in disgrace, and a prisoner, as my enemy?"

Cora reflected, and finally said: "I accept your terms."

"Very good; and now for precautions. You must allow me to supply you with a maid."

"What?"

"You are an invalid; I am well and strong. What could be more natural than that I should desire you to have every care and comfort that I can desire? I shall give you my maid; she will supply the place of Celine Leroque."

"I won't have her," cried Cora, angrily. "I won't have a jailer."

"Certainly not; you will have my maid, however. I will get another to-morrow."

"I won't have her!"

"Nonsense." Madeline stepped quickly to the door and opened it.

"Strong," she said, softly.

Instantly in stepped Strong, who had been just outside awaiting the orders of her mistress.

"Strong," said Madeline, "I am going to let you wait upon Mrs. Arthur.

She is in delicate health, and needs a maid. You must be _very attentive_, and don't let her get into any draughts. You can sleep in the dressing-room; and if she is not _well cared for_, I shall hold you accountable."

Cora looked at the big, robust woman, so appropriately called Strong, and felt that she was indeed a prisoner.

Strong bowed in silent submission to the will of her late mistress, and turned her broad visage upon her new one.

Madeline moved to leave the room, saying, with a return to her former manner: "Good-night, step-mamma; try and go down to breakfast with me in the morning, won't you?"

Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door and swept across the hall, and Cora heard her door close behind her. Not deigning a single glance at Strong, Cora sat tapping her foot upon the carpet and reviewing the situation. After some angry musing, the practical side of her nature began to assert itself. She reflected that she was not, after all, in immediate danger; and that she would be still, to all outward appearance, the mistress of Oakley. There was not much to fear just now, and she would keep her eyes open.

Meantime, she would not be unnecessarily uncomfortable. And so, being by nature indolent, she decided to make the most of the unwelcome Strong. Turning toward the statue-like figure near the door, she galvanized it into life by saying:

"Strong, get my dressing-gown from that closet, and then take off my dress."

And Strong commenced her duties with cheerful alacrity.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

MYSTIFIED PEOPLE.

John Arthur sat before a smoldering fire, gazing moodily down at the charred embers that had lost their glow and only showed a dark red light here and there, as if to assure one that there was fire in the grate.

He was thinner than of old. His face wore a sickly pallor. His hands that clutched the arms of his invalid's chair worked incessantly, indicating surely that his nerves were in anything but a state of calm. He was feeble, too, in body; but his mind, spite of the verdict of the Bellair physician and the drugs of the Professor, was still unimpaired.

In the solitude of the two rooms, out of which he had not once stepped since first he was removed to the west wing, he had had ample time for reflection; but he had by no means arrived at a state of mental beatitude.

He had found it useless to struggle, useless to bluster, to argue or to plead. Henry was a merciless jailer, and Dr. Le Guise a sarcastic one.

His breakfast had been served, and stood upon the table beside him; but he scarcely glanced at it. When Henry came in from the ante-room to remove the things, he said, without looking up: "Go ask Le Guise to come to me."

Henry carried away the tray, deposited it in the ante-room, locked the door of the chamber carefully, and made his way to the breakfast-room.

At that moment, the incongruous mixture called the family, were there assembled, including the Professor. The latter was just then discussing the condition of his patient with Miss Payne, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the young lady was fully conversant with his mode of treatment, and the true condition of her step-father's health.

"You see, my dear young lady," the Professor said, pompously, "his is the worst form of insanity; the very worst. When a patient raves constantly we know precisely what to do with him. But when he is, at times, to all appearance, as sane as yourself, and yet liable at any moment to blaze out a perfect madman, one dislikes to treat him as a madman, and yet it is not safe to consider him a sane being."