Involuntarily Mr. Livingstone glanced at ’Lena; whose face wore a scarlet hue as she hastily quitted the table.  With a presentiment of something, he himself started for Anna’s room; followed by his wife and Carrie, while ’Lena, half-way up the stairs, listened breathlessly for the result.  It was useless knocking for admittance, for there was no one within to bid them enter, and with a powerful effort Mr. Livingstone burst the lock.  The window was open, the lamp was still burning, emitting a faint, sickly odor; the bed was undisturbed, the room in confusion, and Anna was gone.  Mrs. Livingstone’s eye took in all this at a glance, but her husband saw only the latter, and ere he was aware of what he did, a fervent “Thank heaven,” escaped him.

“She’s gone—­run away—­dead, maybe,” exclaimed Mrs. Livingstone, wringing her hands in unfeigned distress, and instinctively drawing nearer to her husband for comfort.

By this time ’Lena had ventured into the room, and turning toward her, Mr. Livingstone said, very gently, “’Lena, where is our child?”

“In Ohio, I dare say, by this time, as she took the night train at Midway for Cincinnati,” said ’Lena, thinking she might as well tell the whole at once.

“In Ohio!” shrieked Mrs. Livingstone, fiercely grasping ’Lena’s arm.  “What has she gone to Ohio for?  Speak, ingrate, for you have done the deed—­I am sure of that!”

“It was Mr. Everett’s wish to return home that way I believe,” coolly answered ’Lena, without quailing in the least from the eyes bent so angrily upon her.

Instantly Mrs. Livingstone’s fingers loosened their grasp, while her face grew livid with mingled passion and fear.  Her fraud was discovered—­her stratagem had failed—­and she was foiled in this, her second darling scheme.  But she was yet to learn what agency ’Lena had in the matter, and this information her husband obtained for her.  There was no anger in the tones of his voice when he asked his niece to explain the mystery, else she might not have answered, for ’Lena could not be driven.  Now, however, she felt that he had a right to know, and she told him all she knew; what she had done herself and why she had done it; that General Fontaine, to whom Malcolm had gone in his trouble, had kindly assisted him by lending both servants and carriage; but upon the intercepted letters she could throw no light.

“’Twas a cursed act, and whoever was guilty of it is unworthy the name of either man or woman,” said Mr. Livingstone, while his eye rested sternly upon his wife.

She knew that he suspected her, but he had no proof, and resolving to make the best of the matter, she, too, united with him in denouncing the deed, wondering who could have done it, and meanly suggesting Maria Fontaine, a pupil of Mr. Everett’s, who had, at one time, felt a slight preference for him.  But this did not deceive her husband—­neither did it help her at all in the present emergency.