not be tolerated much
longer in Lady Hartledon's house was upon her, and she knew not where to
go. Kirton had married again; and his new wife had fairly turned her out
more unceremoniously than the late one did. By hook or by crook, she
meant to obtain the guardianship of her granddaughter, because in giving
her Maude, Lord Hartledon would have to allow her an income.

She was a woman to stop at nothing; and upon quitting the dining-room she
betook herself to the library--a large, magnificent room--the pride of
Hartledon. She had come in search of Val's desk; which she found, and
proceeded to devise means of opening it. That accomplished, she sat
herself down, like a leisurely housebreaker, to examine it, putting on a
pair of spectacles, which she kept surreptitiously in a pocket, and would
not have worn before any one for the world. She found the letter she was
in search of; and she found something else for her pains, which she had
not bargained for.

Not just at first. There were many tempting odds and ends of things to
dip into. For one thing, she found Val's banking book, and some old
cheque-books; they served her for some time. Next she came upon two
packets sealed up in white paper, with Val's own seal. On one was
written, "Letters of Lady Maude;" on the other, "Letters of my dear
Anne." Peering further into the desk, she came upon an obscure inner
slide, which had evidently not been opened for years, and she had
difficulty in undoing it. A paper was in it, superscribed, "Concerning
A.W.;" on opening which she found a letter addressed to Thomas Carr, of
the Temple.

Thomas Carr's letters were no more sacred with her than Lord Hartledon's.
No woman living was troubled with scruples so little as she. It proved to
have been written by a Dr. Mair, in Scotland, and was dated several years
back.

But now--did Lord Hartledon really know he had that dangerous letter by
him? If so, what could have possessed him to preserve it? Or, did he not
rather believe he had returned it to Mr. Carr at the time? The latter,
indeed, proved to be the case; and never, to the end of his life, would
he, in one sense, forgive his own carelessness.

Who was A.W.? thought the curious old woman, as she drew the light nearer
to her, and began the tempting perusal, making the most of the little
time left. They could not be at tea yet, and she had told Lady Hartledon
she was going to take her nap in her own room. The gratification of
rummagi