"Justice"--he lifted a pair of sullen, inquiring eyes--"justice! To
whom?"

"To one whom you have injured beyond reparation--Mary Dane!"

She hissed the name in a sharp, sibilant whisper, and the man recoiled
as if an adder had stung him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, with dry, parched lips. "Why do you come
here to torment me? Mary Dane is dead."

"Mary Dane's daughter lives not twenty miles from where we stand.
Justice to the dead is beyond the power of even the wealthy Carl
Walraven. Justice to the living can yet be rendered, and shall be
to the uttermost farthing."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to find Mary Dane, and bring her here, educate her, dress
her, treat as your own child."

"Where shall I find her?"

"At K----, twenty miles from here."

"Who is she? What is she?"

"An actress, traveling about with a strolling troupe; an actress
since her sixth year--on the stage eleven years to-night. This is her