Seizing his hat, Randall Clayton hurried away to the nearest
telegraph office, where he felt safe from Robert Wade's spies.

"Thank God for Irma's wit," he said, in his heart, as he sent the
veiled words which would bring her to that quiet hotel on Staten
Island, where, among Richmond's leafy bowers, they now defied all
possible detection. It had been her own plan. The long weeks of
Clayton's complete self-surrender had brought about no forward step
in Irma Gluyas' intimacy.

The still silent Madame Raffoni was the careful guardian of the
veiled beauty, and Clayton, loyal to a frenzy of romantic faith,
had never broken his promise.

For he lived only now in Irma's whispered promise, "Wait, and trust
to me. You shall come to me as soon as I can break my bonds. It
shall be then you and I, for the rest of our days, if Love still
holds the helm."

It was long after midnight when the defiant lover returned to his
apartment. The Magyar witch had finally learned the last secret
of his honest heart, and with clinging arms had whispered through
her kisses, "If you leave me, Randall, it is the death of our love."
And, trusting blindly to his honest love, Clayton wagered his life
upon a woman's faith.

Under the door of his room lay a yellow envelope, and as the now
resolute man read it he smiled grimly. "Victory!" he cried, for
Ferris' words assured him of a coming triumph, a crown of life and
love. It seemed that Irma's love had conquered after all.