"You have been ill, distressed," he fondly said. "Nay, do not deny
it! Madame Raffoni has told me all."

"My God!" whispered Irma. "She has told you"--

"Only that you have suffered, my darling," said Clayton, folding
her to his breast.

"Ah! I must make an end of it!" the loyal lover cried, as Irma lay
sobbing on his breast. "If I could only come to you; how shall I
know? Can you trust no one? There is Madame Raffoni," said Clayton.

"She knows where my office is. I have bribed her, with flattery
and a few little kindnesses, to come and tell me of you, several
times, when we have been separated in these long weeks. We have
not even gone to the 'Bavaria'; I have shown her my office. I care
not to force myself upon your loyal secrecy. I respect the promise
upon which your artistic future depends; but think of me. If you
were ill, and we were separated by Fate, I should go mad! I could
not live! Can you not trust her to bring me to you?" Fear and love
were striving now in the singer's throbbing heart.

The Magyar witch clasped her arms around her gallant lover in
a mad access of tenderness. "And you do love me so, Randall," she
cried, in a storm of tears.

"More than my life," said the man who now felt her heart beating
wildly against his own.