e, and believes, I gather that a result will be
attained which will be surprising."

"So long as justice is done," remarked Peggie. "That is all I want--all we
ought to aim at. I don't care twopence about surprising or sensational
discoveries--I want to see my uncle's murderer properly punished."

She shed a few more quiet tears over Jacob Herapath's untoward fate when
Mr. Tertius had left her and fell to thinking about him. The thoughts
which came presently led her to go to the dead man's room--a simple,
spartan-like chamber which she had not entered since his death. She had
a vague sense of wanting to be brought into touch with him through the
things which had been his, and for a while she wandered aimlessly about
the room, laying a hand now and then on the objects which she knew he
must have handled the last time he had occupied the room--his toilet
articles, the easy chair in which he always sat for a few minutes every
night, reading a little before going to bed, the garments which hung in
his wardrobe, anything on which his fingers had rested. And as she
wandered about she noted, not for the first nor the hundredth time, how
Jacob Herapath had gathered about him in this room a number of objects
connected with his youth. The very furniture, simple, homely stuff, had
once stood in his mother's bedroom in a small cottage in a far-off
country. On the walls were portraits of his father and mother--crude
things painted by some local artist; there, too, were some samplers
worked by his mother in her girlhood, flanked by some faded groups of
flowers which she had painted about the same time. Jacob Herapath had
brought all these things to his grand house in Portman Square years
before, and had cleared a room of fine modern furniture and fittings to
make space for them. He had often said to Peggie, when she grew old
enough to understand, that he liked to wake in a morning and see the old
familiar things about him which he had known as a child. For one object
in that room he had a special veneration and affection--an old rosewood
workbox, which had belonged to his mother, and to her mother before her.
Once he had allowed Peggie to inspect it, to take from it the tray lined
with padded green silk, to examine the various nooks and corners
contrived by the eighteenth-century cabinetmaker--some disciple, maybe,
of Chippendale or Sheraton--to fit the tarnished silver thimbles on to
her own fingers, to wonder at the knick-knacks of