Horace paused.  A short, sharp sound broke the momentary silence:  it was caused by the snapping of one of the gilded fan-sticks under the pressure of the white, rigid fingers that clasped it.  But the listener kept her face hidden, and but for that convulsive motion the speaker might have fancied that she slept, so silent and motionless did she remain.  After a short pause Horace continued: 

“The attachment of Count von Erlenstein proved to be a lasting one, and we find Rose Coral at a later period installed in a luxurious establishment in Vienna, and one of the reigning queens of that realm of many sovereigns, the demi-monde of the gay capital of Austria.  But the count falls ill; his sickness speedily assumes a dangerous form; his death deprives Rose Coral of her splendor; and the sunny streets of Vienna know her fair face no more.  I will not retrace for you, as I could do, each step in her rapid descent from luxury to poverty, from splendor to vice, from celebrity to ruin.  But one day she makes her appearance, under the name of Rhoda Steele, on board the steamship America, bound for New York.  The state-room which she occupies is shared by a young girl named Marion Nugent, whose future career is to be that of a governess in the United States.  On the first night out one of the occupants of the state-room is taken suddenly ill and dies, the corpse is committed to the deep, and it is reported throughout the ship that the name of the deceased is Rhoda Steele.  The tale was false:  it was Marion Nugent who died—­it was Rose Sherbrooke, alias Rose Coral, alias Rhoda Steele, who lived to rob the dead girl of her effects and to assume her name!”

The broken fan was flung violently to the floor, and Mrs. Rutherford sprang to her feet, her face livid with passion and her blue eyes blazing with a steel-like light.

“How dare you come here to assert such falsehoods?” she cried.  “You have always hated me—­you and all the rest of your haughty family—­because it pleased Clement Rutherford to marry me—­me, a penniless governess.  But I am your sister-in-law, and I demand that you treat me with proper respect.  You came here to-day simply to insult me.  Well, sir, I will summon my husband, and he shall protect me from your insolence.”

She turned toward the door as she spoke, but he motioned her back with an imperative and scornful gesture.

“Softly, Rose Coral,” he said, with a sneer:  “the manners of the Quartier Breda are not much to my taste, nor do they suit the character you have been pleased to assume.  Do you think me so void of common sense as to return home without full proof of your identity?  I have in my possession a large colored photograph of you, taken some years ago by Hildebrandt of Vienna, and endorsed by him on the back with a certificate stating that it is an accurate likeness of the celebrated Rose Coral.  Secondly, I have brought home with me two witnesses—­one is Jane Sheldon, late housekeeper for the Rev. Walter Nugent, and formerly nurse to the deceased Marion Nugent; and the other is a French hairdresser who lived many years in Vienna, and who, for several months, daily arranged the profuse tresses of Rose Coral.  One will prove who you are not, and the other will as certainly prove who you are.”