CHAPTER XI.

MARION IS LURED INTO A TRAP.

When Marion reached home she was delighted to find Bert Jackson there. He had come from Canada the day before and expected to sail for Europe in two days, but his first thought seemed to be for the welfare of Dollie and Marion. He was a fine-looking lad in his stylish clothes, and when Marion first caught sight of him she hardly knew him.

“You don’t look much like the bare-footed boy in blue jeans that you were last summer, Bert,” she said, laughingly, as she finally pulled her hands away from the grasp he had given them.

“No, I’m a dude now,” said Bert, very gayly. “All I lack is an eye-glass, a walking-stick and a lisp. Oh, I know what they look like! There’s lots of ’em loafing around in my class in society.” The girls both screamed at Bert’s allusion to society, although the boy had only made the remark jestingly.

“Well, why shouldn’t you be in society?” asked Marion, after a pause. “You have plenty of money, and that seems to be nearly all that is needed.”

“Oh, you ought to have a pedigree like a trotter to be real, dead swell,” said Bert, quickly, “and I’m only an orphan brought up on a poor farm!”

“This society business just makes me sick! I’ve been in it a month, and I’m ready to graduate any minute.”

“They are not all bad, thank Heaven!” said Marion, soberly. “I suppose the percentage of goodness is about the same in all classes. But tell me, Bert, what are your plans for the future? You know, Dollie and I are your sisters, and we shall always be interested.”

“Look here, Marion!” said Bert, jumping up and facing her. “I don’t object to calling Dollie any old thing you like, but you can’t play the sister racket on me, for I’m fully determined to marry you some day!”

“Oh, Bert! How ridiculous you are!” said the fair girl, laughing.

“Promise me that you will not say ‘yes’ to anybody for a year. Do promise, Marion. It will make me perfectly happy.”

Marion looked at him sharply to see if he was in earnest. Just at that minute Dollie came to the rescue.

“Why, Bert, how foolish of you!” she exclaimed, with great wisdom. “If sister cares for you she does not need to promise, and if she doesn’t, why, of course, you don’t want her to promise.”

“I guess that’s right,” said the lad, growing thoughtful. “They say love is like lightning—it goes where ’tis sent—so, if that’s the case, there’s no use in my trying to control it.”

There was a ring at the bell, and Marion was glad of the interruption. For the first time in his life Bert was growing too serious.

“Oh, Dollie!” she cried, as she tore open a note that had come to her by a messenger boy, “Miss Lindsay is very ill, and wishes me to come to her at seven o’clock, if I possibly can. I must go, of course, but Mr. Ray is coming to call. Still, perhaps, I can return early; it’s not a very great distance.”

“Try to,” said Dollie, “for, of course, Adele will be with him. Oh, I am so glad they are coming! I have not seen them since my wedding.”

Bert went away soon, and the two girls busied themselves in tidying up the flat, and at about a quarter of seven Marion started to visit Miss Lindsay. Little did she dream when she said good-bye to Dollie that another trap had been laid for her unsuspecting feet and that she was going deliberately to her own destruction.

She smiled happily at her sister as she tripped down the steps, and her sweet face was so radiant with joy and health that nearly every one she passed turned at once and looked after her.

“What an awful neighborhood,” she thought, as she reached Miss Lindsay’s block at last. It was farther from Dollie’s than she had anticipated.

When she saw the number she was seeking on the door of a dilapidated tenement-house, she breathed a sigh of sympathy for little Miss Lindsay.

“I did not dream she was so poor,” she murmured, and then, lifting her skirts carefully, she picked her way through a swarm of dirty-faced children and boldly mounted the rickety steps of the dingy tenement.

Up, up she went, and still no signs of Miss Lindsay. She inquired on each landing, but not half of the women whom she asked understood her, for they were mostly ignorant foreigners who did not know a word of English.

At last, at the very top of the house, she saw a half-open door, and almost as she touched it she came face to face with Miss Lindsay.

“Oh, signorita!” cried the girl, in a half-whisper, as she saw her. Then, without another word, she burst into violent weeping.

“Don’t cry, dear,” said Marion, as she put her arms around the girl. “I understand: you are ill, and poor, and unhappy, but I will help you gladly. I am so glad you sent for me, dear.”

Instead of answering, the poor chorus girl began weeping more bitterly than ever. Her frail form was racked with sobs that were heart-rending. The more earnestly Marion endeavored to comfort her the more hysterical she became, until at last the brave girl was fairly bewildered.

“How can I help you, dear, if you do not tell me your trouble?” she asked, in desperation, at the same time laying her hand softly on Miss Lindsay’s shoulder.

In a second the girl dropped on her knees before her. As she lifted her streaming eyes to Marion’s face she seemed suddenly to have grown a dozen years older.

“Oh, signorita, forgive me!” she cried, in agony. “Forgive me for wronging you. I did not mean it! Oh, I am a guilty, vile woman to do as I have done, but I love him. Oh, I love him, and I could not help it!”

For just one second Marion Marlowe was dazed, then, like a flash, it came to her comprehension what the weeping girl meant. She had once more been led into some wicked trap. Either her life or her virtue was in immediate danger.

“What is it? Quick! You must tell me!” she cried, seizing the girl by both shoulders. “I forgive you freely for your part in the matter, only tell me what it is, that I may protect myself. A moment more and it may be too late. Hurry, I implore you!”

There was a heavy step on the stair and Marion had heard it. The girl heard it also, and it seemed to paralyze her senses.

“Too late! Too late!” she whispered, wildly. Then, with a bound, she sprang to her dilapidated bureau and opened it.

“Here, take this!” she whispered, thrusting a revolver into Marion’s hand. “And, oh, forgive me for letting them make a tool of me, Miss Marlowe! I would save you now if I could! Oh, what a guilty creature I am!”

She sank down, cowering at her visitor’s feet, just as Marion dropped the weapon carefully into her pocket.

There was another footstep heard in the hall and some one touched the door.

Marion turned and faced the emergency calmly, but with flashing eyes, and at that moment Miss Lindsay raised her head and whispered, hoarsely:

“Be careful! It is loaded! For God’s sake don’t shoot him!”

Marion did not move her eyes from the door, neither did she heed the last words.

“It would not be much use to me if it were not loaded,” she said, very coolly. Then, as a beautiful statue, she stood, silently, calmly, and—waited!