Mona | Page 8

and artfully deceived. Mrs. Bently--if indeed that was her real name, which he doubted--had seemed such a modest and unassuming woman, so frank, and sweet, and ingenuous, that he would have indignantly resented it had any one hinted to him that she was not all that she appeared to be.
He had never met any woman who possessed such power to charm him, and yet she had never seemed to seek his notice--had never appeared to thrust herself upon him in any way. He had instead sought her and been especially attracted to her by the very simplicity and naturalness of her deportment; and this rude awakening to the fact of her duplicity was therefore far more bitter than the loss of his money, although that was considerable.
He was greatly depressed, but, on leaving Mr. Arnold's store, he proceeded directly to the street and number which she had given as her future place of residence. It proved to be an empty house with the sign "To Rent" staring at him from several windows.
He next sought for the lawyer who, Mrs. Bently had told him, had conducted her business affairs. There was no such person to be found.
Then, his indignation getting the better of his grief and disappointment, he sought a detective, told his story, and gave the case into his hands.
"Keep the matter quiet, Rider," he said, "but spare no expense to find the woman. If she is a professional thief, she will try the same trick on some one else; and though we may not be able to bring her to justice in this case, since I so rashly tied my hands by giving her that writing, yet I should like to give my evidence against her for the benefit of some other unfortunate victim."
Thus the matter rested for the time, and Justin Cutler once more threw himself heart and soul into business, vowing that he would never trust a woman again.
"But I'll keep the bogus crescents, to remind me of my folly, for of course I shall never see the real ones again."
Did he?
CHAPTER III.
MONA.
"Mona, come here, dear, please."
A gentleman, of perhaps forty-five, looked up from the desk where he had been writing, as he uttered this request; but his voice trembled slightly, and was replete with tenderness, as he spoke the name which heads this chapter.
The girl whom he addressed was sitting by a window on the opposite side of the room, and she lifted her bright brown head and turned a pair of dark, liquid eyes upon the speaker.
"Yes, Uncle Walter," she cheerfully responded, as, laying down her book, she arose and moved gracefully across the room toward the handsome, aristocratic-looking man at the desk, who watched her every motion with a fond intentness that betrayed a deep and absorbing affection for her.
He frowned slightly, however, as she spoke, and a half-bitter, half-scornful smile curled his finely chiseled lips for an instant.
The young girl was tall and exquisitely formed, but her face was one not easily described. Her features were delicate and clearly defined, yet with a certain roundness about them such as one sees in a faultlessly sculptured statue, while unusual strength of character was written indelibly upon them. Her hair was slightly curly, and arranged with a careful carelessness that was very becoming, while here and there a stray ringlet, that had escaped the silver pin that confined it, seemed to coquet with the delicate fairness of her neck and brow.
Reaching her uncle's side, she laid one white hand upon his shoulder, then slid it softly about his neck.
"What is it, Uncle Walter? What, makes you look so sober? Have I done something naughty that you are going to scold me for?" she concluded, playfully, as she bent forward and looked archly into his eyes.
His face grew luminous instantly as he met her gaze, while he captured her small hand and toyed with the rosy, taper fingers.
"Do I look sober?" and a brilliant smile chased the gloom from lip and brow. "I did not mean to, while you know I could not scold you if you were ever so naughty, and you are never that."
"Perhaps every one does not look upon me with your partial eyes," the lovely girl returned, with a musical little laugh.
The man carried the hand he held to his lips and kissed it lingeringly.
"Let me see," he remarked, after thinking a moment, "isn't it somebody's birthday to-day?"
"So it is! but I had not thought of it before," exclaimed the maiden, with a lovely flush sweeping into her cheeks. "And," with a far-away look in her eyes, "I am eighteen years old."
"Eighteen!" and Walter Dinsmore started slightly, while a vivid red suddenly dyed his brow, and a look of pain settled about his mouth.
But he soon conquered his emotion, whatever it might