ly find her desk unlocked and
her drawers open, the inmost secrets of her life would be at his mercy.

He tried her desk; he tried the cupboard under the bookcase. They were
both locked. The cabinet between the windows and the drawer of the table
were left unguarded. No discovery rewarded the careful search that he
pursued in these two repositories. He opened the books that she had left
on the table, and shook them. No forgotten letter, no private memorandum
(used as marks) dropped out. He looked all round him; he peeped into the
bedroom; he listened, to make sure that nobody was outside; he entered
the bedroom, and examined the toilet-table, and opened the doors of the
wardrobe--and still the search was fruitless, persevere as he might.

Returning to the sitting-room, he shook his fist at the writing-desk.
"You wouldn't be locked," he thought, "unless you had some shameful
secrets to keep! _I_ shall have other opportunities; and _she_ may not
always remember to turn the key." He stole quietly down the stairs, and
met no one on his way out.

The bad weather continued on the next day. The object of Mr. Le Frank's
suspicion remained in the house--and the second opportunity failed to
offer itself as yet.

The visit to the exhibition of conjuring had done Carmina harm instead
of good. Her head ached, in the close atmosphere--she was too fatigued
to be able to stay in the room until the performance came to an end.
Poor Mr. Gallilee retired in disgrace to the shelter of his club. At
dinner, even his perfect temper failed him for the moment. He found
fault with the champagne--and then apologised to the waiter. "I'm sorry
I was a little hard on you just now. The fact is, I'm out of sorts--you
have felt in that way yourself, haven't you? The wine's first-rate; and,
really the weather is so discouraging, I think I'll try another pint."

But Carmina's buoyant heart defied the languor of illness and the
gloomy day. The post had brought her a letter from Ovid--enclosing a
photograph, taken at Montreal, which presented him in his travelling
costume.

He wrote in a tone of cheerfulness, which revived Carmina's sinking
courage, and renewed for a time at least the happiness of other
days. The air of the plains of Canada he declared to be literally
intoxicating. Every hour seemed to be giving him back the vital energy
that he had lost in his London life. He slept on the ground, in the
open air, more soundly than he had ever slept i