"Stop!" he said hoarsely.

"No, Mark, I shall not stop," cried Janet decidedly. "You say that you went to a friend's house that night with all your money and--and treasure."

"Girl! will you be silent?" he cried savagely.

"No," said Janet, laughing. "I want you to see this matter as I do.

Whoever this man is, he ought to be forced to give up what he must have stolen from you. If you will not stir, I shall."

"You will?"

"Yes, I shall take counsel with Hendon again."

"Again?" almost yelled Mark.

"Yes, sir, again. We have spoken over the matter together, and he agrees that the police ought to be seen, and that you must make this friend give up what he has taken."

"You'll drive me mad, Janet. Hendon thinks this?"

"Yes; and we are going to do it at once, for the sake of you and Rich."

"You shall not stir!" cried Mark fiercely.

"Why not?" interposed Rich, taking his hand. "I think with my brother and Janet now, much as I dislike these investigations."

"You think so--you?" cried Mark wildly.

"Yes. Why not?" said Rich. "Mark dear, why should you flinch from speaking out? You have no unworthy motive."

"Unworthy motive? No," he said bitterly, "I give up everything to spare another."

"Then you shall not," said Janet firmly. "Your duty is to Richmond here; your promised wife."

"Yes," said Mark moodily; "my duty is to Rich here, my promised wife."

"And yet for the sake of some unworthy wretch, you make her suffer--yes, sir, and me too. Why, Rich, dear Rich, what is the matter?"

She flew to her friend's side, and caught her hands; for Rich had started from her chair, looking wildly from one to the other, as, struggling as it were from out of a confused mist, how revived she could not tell, there came back to her, memory by memory, the scenes of that terrible night. Yes: she remembered now, though it still seemed like a dream--a fragmentary, misty dream.

Yes, that was the clue! Janet had said it was upon that same night that Mark had returned--had been found senseless in the streets.

"Don't, don't speak to me for a minute!" she cried, as she fought hard to recall everything--the maddening pain that night, the visit to the surgery, the chloral she had obtained and taken, and then that strange wild sleep.

Yes; she recalled it now. She dreamed she had come down to fetch something else from the surgery to allay the agony she suffered, and that the door was locked, and that she had heard voices--her father's voice, Mark's voice--yes, it was Mark's voice; and she had stood there trembling till it died away; and that formed part of her dream.

But now the voice was here in this room, and he caught her hand with a wildly suspicious look in his eye.

"What are you thinking?" he said.

She turned upon him sharply.

"The name of your friend with whom you took refuge that night?" she said; and her eyes flashed as she gazed searchingly in his.

He dropped her hand, and turned away, with his lips compressed and face contracted.

"Mark," she cried, "why do you not speak? Where did you go that night when you returned?"

He looked at her for a moment, and then turned away again. "I do not know," he said hoarsely.

"It is not true," cried Rich. "You must speak now. It was to our house you came."

"What!"

"I remember now. I heard your voice. You were with my father--in the surgery."

"Rich," he said, almost savagely, as he caught her wrist, "think of what you are saying!"

"Rich dear, don't say that!" cried Janet piteously.

"I know what I am saying," she said excitedly; and though her face was calm, it was evident that she was suffering terribly.

"No, no," he cried; "no, dear, you are wrong."

"No, Mark, I am right: you told us you took refuge with a friend--that friend was my father."

"What! Rich, do you know what you are saying--do you know what this means if the police should hear?"

"Yes," she cried; "the clearing up of a terrible mystery; perhaps the restoration of all that you have lost."

"Janet, is she mad?" cried Mark. "Do you not see what all this means?"

Janet shook her head with a helpless look on her face.

"Then I will tell you," he thundered: "it means ruin--misery to us all.

Girl, for pity's sake, be silent! Rich, dear Rich, I love you with a man's first strong love. Have I not slaved for you all these years, to win you for my own true wife? Don't--don't raise this up between us.

What is poverty to such a shadow as this?"

"I do not understand you," she cried; "but it is true. You did come to my father's house that night."

He gazed at her in blank despair.

"Why do you look at me like that? Do you not see the light?"

"The light!" he cried, with a bitter laugh. "I see you--the woman I love--trying to force me into a position which I would sooner die than hold. Hush, for mercy's sake! No, no, no!" he muttered; and then aloud, "Call it a lie, or a desperate man's last cry for help. I did not come to your father's house that night."

Rich gazed at him in blank astonishment for the moment, and then she flung her arms about his neck, and with her eyes close to his, she cried.

"What are you thinking--that it was my father who drugged and robbed you, or my brother? Oh, Mark?"

She seemed to throw him off as she stepped back, her pale face flushing, and a look of indignant anger in her eyes.