Madeline Payne, the Detective's Daughter. Lawrence L. Lynch

      "I suppose so," assented Madeline, indifferently, as if the subject had lost all interest for her.

      Slowly the afternoon wore on, moments seeming hours to the despairing girl. At length Lucian, finding her little inclined to assist him in keeping up a conversation, said:

      "I am selfish not to remember that you are very tired. I will leave you to solitude and repose for a little time, shall I?"

      "If you wish," she replied, wearily. "I suppose I need the rest."

      "Then I will look in upon some of my friends. I have almost lost the run of city doings during my absence. Meantime, ring for anything you may need, won't you?"

      "I will ring;" and she looked, not at him, but at the bracket beyond.

      "Then good-by, little sweetheart. It is now four; I will be with you at six."

      He embraced her tenderly, and went out with that debonnair grace which she had so loved. She looked after him with a hungry, hopeless longing in her eyes.

      "Oh, why does God make His foulest things the fairest?" she moaned. "Why did He put love in our hearts if it must turn our lives to ashes? Why must one be so young and yet so miserable? Oh, mother, mother, are all women wronged like us?"

      Madeline arose and commenced pacing the floor restlessly, nervously. She had come here with no fixed purpose, nothing beyond the indefinite determination to defy and thwart the man who had entrapped her. She had never for a moment feared for her safety, or doubted her ability to accomplish her object.

      A plan was now taking shape in her mind, and as she pondered, she extended her march, quite unthinkingly, on into the adjoining room, the door of which stood invitingly open. The first object to attract her attention was the light traveling coat which Lucian had worn on the previous day; worn when he was pleading his suit under the trees of Oakley; and in a burst of anger, as if it were a part of him she was thinking of so bitterly, she seized and hurled it from her. As it flew across the room, something fell from a pocket, almost at her feet.

      She looked down at it; it was a telegram, the one, doubtless, that had called him back to the city the day before. A business matter, he had said. Into her mind flashed the words of Olive Girard, "a professional gambler." She would see what this "business" was. Stooping, she picked up the crumpled envelope, and quickly devoured its contents.

      Must see you immediately. Come by first train; am waiting at your quarters.

      Cora.

      Madeline went back to the lighter, larger room, and seating herself, looked about her. Again the words of Olive rung in her ears.

      "Cora!" she ejaculated. "He obeyed her summons, and brought me with him. And she was here only last night—and where has she gone? This must be the 'notorious,' the 'handsome.' Ah, Lucian Davlin, this is well; this nerves me for the worst! I shall not falter now. This is the first link in the chain that shall yet make your life a burden."

      She crossed the room and touched the bell.

      "Now for the first real step," said Madeline, grimly.

      The door opened and the dark face of Henry appeared, bowing on the threshold.

      "Come in, Henry, and close the door," said Madeline, pleasantly. "I want you to do me a favor, if you will."

      Henry came in, and stood waiting her order.

      "Will you carry a note for me, Henry, and bring me back an answer? I want you to take it, because I feel as if I could trust you. You look like one who would be faithful to those who were kind to you."

      "Thank you, lady; indeed I would," said the man, in grateful tones.

      Madeline was quick to see the advantage to be gained by possessing the regard and confidence of this man, who must, necessarily, know so much that it was desirable to learn of the life and habits of him, between whom and herself must be waged a war to the very death.

      She reasoned rapidly, and as rapidly arrived at her conclusions. The first of those was, that Lucian Davlin, by his intolerance and unkindness, had fitted a tool to her hand, and she, therefore, as a preliminary step, must propitiate and win the confidence of this same tool left by his master within her reach.

      "And will you carry my letter, Henry, and return with an answer as soon as you can? You will find the person at this hour without any trouble."

      "Master ordered me to attend to your wants," replied the man, in a somewhat surly tone.

      She understood this somber inflection, and said: "He 'ordered' you? Yes, I see; is your master always as hard to please as to-day, Henry? He certainly was a little unkind."

      "He's always the same, madame," said the man, gloomily. Her words brought vividly before his mind's eye the many instances of his master's unkindness.

      "I'm sorry he is not kind to you," said the girl, hypocritically. "And I don't want you to carry this letter because he ordered you. I want you to do it to oblige me, Henry, and it will make me always your friend."

      Ah, Henry, one resentful gleam from your eyes, as you stood behind the chair of your tyrant, has given to this slight girl the clue by which to sway you to her will. She was smiling upon him, and the man replied, in gratitude:

      "I'll do anything for you, madame."

      "Thank you, Henry. I was sure I could trust you. Will you get me some writing material, please?"

      Henry crossed to the handsome davenport, and found it locked. But when taking this precaution, Davlin overlooked the fact that Cora's last gift—a little affair intended for the convenience of travelers, being a combined dressing case and writing desk, the dividing compartment of which contained an excellent cabinet photograph of the lady herself, so enshrined as to be the first thing to greet the eyes of whosoever should open the little receptacle—was still accessible.

      Failing to open the davenport, Henry turned to this; and pressing upon the spring lock, exposed to the view of Madeline, standing near, the pictured face of Cora. Spite of his grievances, the sense of his duty was strong upon him, and he put himself between the girl and the object of her interest. Not so quickly but that she saw, and understood the movement. Stepping to his side, she put out her hand, saying:

      "What an exquisite picture—Madame Cora, is it not, Henry?"

      She was looking him full in the eyes, and he answered, staring in astonishment the while: "Yes, miss."

      "She is very handsome," mused the girl, as if to herself: "left just before my arrival, I think?" she added, at a venture.

      Again her eyes searched his face, and again he gave a surprised assent.

      "Do you like her, Henry?" questioned she, intent on her purpose.

      "She is just like him," he said, jerking his head grimly, while his voice took again a resentful tone. "She thinks a man who is black has no feelings."

      He placed pen, ink and paper on the table as he answered, and then looked to her inquiringly.

      "You may wait here while I write, if you will," she said, and took up the pen.

      She had brought away from the G—— House, the two cards of her would-be friends, and she now consulted them before she asked.

      "No. 52—— street; is that far, Henry?"

      "It's a five minutes' walk," he answered. "I can go and come in twenty minutes, allowing time for an answer."

      "Very good," she said, abruptly, and wrote rapidly:

      Clarence Vaughan.

      No. 52—— street.

      Sir—Having no other friend at hand, I take you at your word. I need your aid, to rescue me from the power of a bad man. Will you meet me, with a carriage, at the south corner of this block, in one hour, and take me to Mrs. Girard, who