A few days before the tenth of October, which was the day appointed for the bridal, Dick Turner, one of Paul’s friends, gave a supper at the Bachelors’ Club.  A supper in honor of Paul, or to testify the sorrow of the Club at the loss of one of its members.  It was a very hilarious occasion, and the toasting and wine-drinking extended far into the small hours.

In a somewhat elevated frame of mind, Mr. Paul Linmere left the rooms of the Club at about three o’clock in the morning, to return home.  His way lay along the most deserted part of the city—­a place where there were few dwellings, and the buildings were mostly stores and warehouses.

Suddenly a touch on his arm stopped him.  The same cold, deathly touch he had felt once before.  He had drank just enough to feel remarkably brave, and turning, he encountered the strangely gleaming eyes that had frozen his blood that night in early summer.  All his bravado left him.  He felt weak and helpless as a child.

“What is it? what do you want?” he asked brokenly.

“Justice!” said the mysterious presence.

“Justice?  For whom?”

“Arabel Vere.”

“Arabel Vere!  Curse her!” he cried, savagely.

The figure lifted a spectral white hand.

“Paul Linmere—­beware!  The vengeance of the dead reaches sometimes unto the living!  There is not water enough in the Seine to drown a woman’s hatred!  Death itself cannot annihilate it!  Beware!”

He struck savagely at the uplifted hand, but his arm met no resistance.  He beat only against the impalpable air.  His spectral visitor had flown, and left nothing behind her to tell of her presence.

With unsteady steps Mr. Paul Linmere hurried home, entered his room, and double-locked the door behind him.

* * * * *

Mr. Trevlyn had decided that the marriage of his ward should take place at Harrison Park, the old country seat of the Harrisons, on the Hudson.  Here Margie’s parents had lived always in the summer; here they had died within a week of each other, and here in the cypress grove by the river, they were buried.  There would be no more fitting place for the marriage of their daughter to be solemnized.  Margie neither opposed nor approved the plan.  She did not oppose anything.  She was passive, almost apathetic.

The admiring dressmakers and milliners came and went, fitting, and measuring, and trying on their tasteful creations, but without eliciting any signs of interest or pleasure from Margie Harrison.  She gave no orders, found no fault; expressed no admiration nor its opposite.  It was all the same to her.

The bridal dress came home a few days before the appointed day.  It was a superb affair, and Margie looked like a queen in it.  It was of white satin, with a point lace overskirt, looped up at intervals with tiny bouquets of orange blossoms.  The corsage was cut low, leaving the beautiful shoulders bare, the open sleeves displaying the perfectly rounded arms in all their perfection.  The veil was point lace, and must have cost a little fortune.  Mr. Trevlyn had determined that everything should be on a magnificent scale, and had given the whole arrangement of the affair to Mrs. Colonel Weldon, the most fashionable woman in her set.