s history might have to do with the finding of
Gwendolen, I felt an almost imperative necessity of satisfying my
curiosity in regard to it, though I knew she had deliberately roused
this curiosity for a purpose which, if not comprehensible to me, was of
marked importance to her and not altogether for the reason she had been
pleased to give me. Possibly it was on account of this last mentioned
conviction that I allowed myself to be so interested.

"It is late," she murmured with a final glance towards those dismal
hangings which in my present mood I should not have been so greatly
surprised to see stir under her look. "However, if you will pardon the
hour and accept a seat in my small library, I will show you what only
one other person has seen besides myself."

It was a temptation; for several reasons it was a temptation; yet--

"I want you to see why I am frightened of this place," she said,
flashing her eyes upon me with an almost girlish appeal.

"I will go," said I; and following her quickly out, I locked the
bungalow door, and ignoring the hand she extended toward me, dropped the
key into my pocket.

I thought I heard a little gasp--the least, the smallest of sounds
possible. But if so, the feeling which prompted it was not apparent in
her manner or her voice as she led the way back to her house, and
ushered me into a hall full of packing-boxes and the general litter
accompanying an approaching departure.

"You will excuse the disorder," she cried as she piloted me through
these various encumbrances to a small but exquisitely furnished room
still glorying in its full complement of ornaments and pictures. "This
trouble which has come to one I love has made it very hard for me to do
anything. I feel helpless, at times, completely helpless."

The dejection she expressed was but momentary, however. In another
instant she was pointing out a chair and begging me to make myself
comfortable while she went for the letter (I think she called it a
letter) which I had come there to read.

What was I to think of her? What was I to think of myself? And what
would the story tell me to warrant the loss of what might have proved a
most valuable hour? I had not answered these questions when she
reentered with a bundle in her hand of discolored--I should almost call
them mouldered--sheets of much crumpled paper.

"These--" she began; then, seeing me look at them with something like
suspicion, she paused until she caught my