table, the discarded clothing strewn on the floor.

"Gone!" he cried hoarsely. "Gone at the bidding of some
scoundrel--perhaps a trusted friend and comrade! God help my betrayer
when the day of reckoning comes! But I am well rid of her. She was
heartless and mercenary. She never could have loved me--she has left me
because she knew that my money was nearly spent. But I love her still. I
can't tear her out of my heart. Diane, my wife, come back! Come back!"

His voice rang through the empty, deserted rooms. He threw himself on
the bed, and tore the lace coverings with his finger nails. He wept
bitter tears, strong man though he was, while out on the boulevard the
laughter of the midnight revelers mocked at his grief.

Finally he rose; he laughed harshly.

"Damn her, she would have dragged me down to her own level," he
muttered. "It is for the best. I am a free man once more."




CHAPTER II.

FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS.


Jack Vernon looked discontentedly at the big canvas on the easel, and
with a shrug of the shoulders he turned his back on it. He dropped his
palette and flung his sheaf of brushes into an open drawer.