"How did you find me out?" she inquired, in a low tone.

"I had a letter telling me that my seamstress, who called herself Ruth Richards, was no other than Mona Montague--the last person in all the world whom I would have wished to receive into my family--and that she was having secret meetings with Raymond Palmer."

"Who wrote that letter?" Mona demanded, with heightened color.

"I do not know--it was anonymous; but I was convinced at once that you were Mona Montague, from the fact that you were having secret interviews with Ray Palmer, for his father had told me of his interest in her. Of course I instantly came to the conclusion that you were plotting against me, and, though I did not believe that you could prove your ident.i.ty, or your mother's legal marriage, I feared that something might occur to trouble me in the possession of my fortune; so I resolved to marry you to Louis and settle the matter for all time."

"Then that was why you started so suddenly for the South?" Mona said, with flashing eyes.

"That was not my only reason for going," returned Mrs. Montague, flushing. "I--I had a telegram calling me to St. Louis, and so thought the opportunity a fine one to carry out my scheme regarding you."

"And did you suppose, for one moment, that you could drive me into a marriage with a man for whom I had not the slightest affection or even respect?" Mona demanded, bending an indignant look upon the unprincipled schemer.

"I at least resolved that I would so compromise you that no one else would ever marry you," was the malicious retort, as the woman turned her vindictive glance from her to Ray.

"Nothing could really compromise me but voluntary wrong-doing," Mona answered, with quiet dignity, "and your vile scheme was but a miserable failure."

"I do not need to be twitted of the fact," Mrs. Montague impatiently returned. "My whole life has been a failure," she went on, her face almost convulsed with pain and pa.s.sion. "Oh! if I had only destroyed that marriage certificate you would never have triumphed over me like this; you would never have learned the truth about yourself."

"Oh, yes, I should," Mona composedly returned, "and even my trip to New Orleans resulted advantageously to me."

"How so?" questioned her enemy, with a start, and regarding her with a frown.

"An accident revealed to me, on the last night of our stay there, the whole truth about myself. Up to that time I was entirely ignorant of the fact that my supposed uncle was my father, for I knew nothing about the discovery of the certificate until my return from Havana."

"What do you mean?--what accident do you refer to?" Mrs. Montague asked.

"The day I was eighteen years old I asked my father some very close questions regarding my parentage, of which I had been kept very ignorant all my life. Some of them he answered, some of them he evaded, and, on the whole, my conversation with him was very unsatisfactory; for I really did not know much more about myself and my father and mother at its close than at its beginning.

"On the same day he gave me a small mirror that had once belonged to Marie Antoinette, and which, he said, had been handed down as an heirloom in my mother's family for several generations. This mirror he cautioned me never to part with; and so, when I went South with you, I packed it with my other things in my trunk. That last evening in New Orleans, while removing and repacking some clothing I dropped the book containing my mirror. When I picked it up I discovered that it contained a secret drawer in its frame. In the drawer there were some letters, a box containing two rings belonging to my mother and a full confession, written by my father upon the very day that he had presented me with the royal keepsake.

"So," Mona concluded, "you perceive that even had you destroyed the certificate proving their marriage, I should have other and sufficient proof that I was the child of Mr. and Mrs. Walter Dinsmore."

"Oh! if I had only forced the sale of all his property and gone back at once to California, I should have escaped all this and kept my fortune,"

groaned the unhappy woman, in deep distress.

"Really, Mrs. Dinsmore, you are showing anything but a right spirit--" Mr. Corbin began, in a tone of reproof, when she interrupted him with pa.s.sionate vehemence.

"Never address me by that name," she cried. "Do you suppose I wish to be known as the widow of the man who repudiated me? Never! That was why I adopted the name of Montague, and I still wish to be known as such.

Ah!--but if I have to go to--Oh, pray plead for me!" she cried, turning again to Mona; "do not let them send me to prison."

Just at that moment Mr. Palmer's wan face appeared again at the rear door of the drawing-room.

He beckoned to Ray, who immediately left the room, and Mona, who had grown very thoughtful after Mrs. Montague's last appeal, left her seat and approached the lawyers.

"Mr. Graves--Mr. Corbin," she said, in a low tone, which only they could hear, "cannot something be done to keep this matter from becoming public? I cannot bear the thought of having my dear father's name become the subject of any scandal in connection with this woman. It would wound me very sorely to have it known that Mrs. Richmond Montague, who has figured so conspicuously in New York society, was his discarded wife; that she robbed me of my fortune, and why; that she--the woman bearing his name--was the unprincipled schemer who defrauded Mr. Justin Cutler and Mrs. Vanderheck, and robbed Mr. Palmer of valuable diamonds. I could not endure," she went on, flushing crimson, "that my name should be brought before the public in connection with Louis Hamblin and that wretched voyage from New Orleans to Havana."

"But, my dear Miss Dinsmore--" began Mr. Corbin.

"Please let me continue," Mona interposed, smiling faintly, yet betraying considerable feeling. "I think I know what you wished to remark--that she has had the benefit of all this money which she has obtained under false pretenses, and that she ought to suffer the extreme penalty of the law for her misdeeds. She cannot fail to suffer all, and more than any one could desire, in the failure of her schemes, in the discovery of her wickedness, and in the loss of the fortune of which she felt so secure.

But even if she were indifferent to all this I should still beg you to consider the bitter humiliation which a public trial would entail upon me, and the reproach upon my father's. .h.i.therto unsullied name. If--if I will cause Mr. Cutler and Mrs. Vanderheck to be reimbursed for the loss which they sustained through Mrs. Montague's dishonesty, cannot you arrange some way by which a committal and a trial can be avoided?"

"I am afraid it would be defeating all law and justice," Mr. Corbin began again, and just at that moment Ray returned to the room, looking very grave and thoughtful.

Mona's face lighted as she saw him.

"Ray, come here, please, and plead for me," she said, turning her earnest face toward him; and he saw at once that her heart was very much set upon her object, whatever it might be.

CHAPTER XXI.

MRS. MONTAGUE TELLS HER STORY.

"What is it, Mona?" Ray inquired, as he went to her side. "You may be very sure that I will second your wishes if they are wise and do not interfere in any way with your interests."

Mona briefly repeated what she had already proposed to the lawyers, and Ray immediately responded that it was also his wish and his father's that as far as they were concerned all public proceedings against Mrs.

Montague should be suspended.

"Come with me to another room where we can converse more freely," he added, "for I have a proposition to make to you in my father's name. Mr.

Rider," raising his voice and addressing the detective, "will you allow Mrs. Montague to remain alone with Miss Dinsmore for a little while, as I wish to confer with you upon a matter of importance?"

The detective took a swift survey of the room before answering. It was evident that he had no intention of allowing his captive to escape him now after all his previous efforts to secure her.

"Yes," he replied, "I will go with you into the hall, if that will do."

He knew that in the hall he should be able to keep his eyes upon both doors of the drawing-room, and no one could pa.s.s in and out without his knowing it, while there was no other way of egress.

The four gentlemen accordingly withdrew, thus leaving Mona and Mrs.

Montague by themselves.

Mona seated herself by a window, and as far as possible from the woman, for she shrank with the greatest aversion from her, while she felt that her own presence must be oppressive and full of reproach to her.

But the woman's curiosity was for the moment greater than her anxiety or remorse, and after a brief silence, she abruptly inquired:

"How did that detective find that box of diamonds?"

"He did not find them. I accidentally discovered them," Mona replied.

"You? What were you prowling about in my room for?" crossly demanded Mrs.

Montague.

"I was simply looking for a pair of scissors which I had left there the day before we went South. But why did you lock me in the room, for I suppose it was you?"

"Because I was desperate," was the defiant response. "I had just learned how you had escaped from Louis, but I had not a thought of finding you here. When I saw you in my room, however, a great fear came over me that you would yet prove my ruin. I imagined that you had just arrived in New York, and had come here to take away your things, and were perhaps searching my room for proofs of your ident.i.ty. So on the impulse of the moment I locked you in, intending to make my own terms with you before I let you go."

"Did you suppose, after my experience in New Orleans, that I would trust myself with you without letting some one know where I could be found?"