Archer Trevlyn and Alexandrine Lee were married in September.  It was a very quiet wedding, the bridegroom preferring that there should be no parade or show on the occasion.  Alexandrine and her mother both desired that it should take place in the fashionable church, where they worshipped, but they yielded to the wishes of Mr. Trevlyn.  He deserved some deference, Mrs. Lee declared, for having behaved so handsomely.  His presents to his bride were superb.  A set of diamonds, that were a little fortune in themselves, and a settlement of three thousand a year—­pin-money.  The brown-stone house was furnished, and there was no more elegant establishment in the city.

Trevlyn House, the fine old residence of the late John Trevlyn, was closed.  Only the old butler and his wife remained in a back-wing, to air the rooms occasionally, and keep the moths out of the upholstery.  For some reasons, unexplained even to himself, Archer never took his wife there.  Perhaps the quiet room too forcibly reminded him of the woman he had loved and lost.

Alexandrine’s ambition was satisfied.  At last, she was the wife of the man whose love and admiration she had coveted since her first acquaintance with him.  From her heart she believed him guilty of the murder of Paul Linmere; but in spite of it, she had married him.  She loved him intensely enough to pardon even that heinous crime.

Her husband’s admiration Alexandrine possessed, but she soon came to realize that he had told her the truth, when he said his heart was buried too deep to know a resurrection.  He was kind to her—­very gentle, and kind, and generous—­for it was not in Archer Trevlyn’s nature to be unkind to anything—­and he felt that he owed her all respect and attention, in return for her love.  Her every wish was gratified.  Horses, carriages, servants, dress, jewelry—­everything that money could purchase—­waited her command, but not what she craved more than all—­his love.

He never kissed her, never took her hands in his, or held her to him when he said good-by, as he frequently did, for several days’ absence on matters of business.  He never called her Alexandrine—­it was always Mrs. Trevlyn; and through the long winter evenings, when they were not at some ball or party, and sat by their splendid fireside, he never put his head in her lap, and let her soft fingers caress his hair, as she had seen other husbands do.

In September, Louis Castrani again appeared in New York society.  His appearance revived the old story of his devotion to Margaret Harrison, and people began to wonder why she staid away from home so long.

As soon as he heard of Castrani’s arrival, Archer Trevlyn sought him out.  He felt that he had a right to know if his suspicions touching Margie were correct.

Castrani received him coldly but courteously.  Trevlyn was not to be repelled, but went to the point at once.

“Mr. Castrani,” he said, “I believe I have to deal with a man of honor, and I trust that you will do me the favor of answering the questions I may ask, frankly.”