k for Lady Charlton to endure
the heat in Paris or the fatigues of the long journey. Mr. Murray's
letter decided them to move. Rose must go, and her mother would not stay
behind alone. Lady Charlton decided to pay a month's visit to her
youngest daughter in Scotland, as Rose might be kept in London.

It was a disappointment. The house in London would be nearly as stuffy
as Paris. Rose disliked the season and was in no mood for the stale
echoes of its dying excitements. She would not tell her friends that she
was back; she would keep as quiet as she had been in Paris.

The first morning, after early service and breakfast, she went to the
library to wait for the lawyer's visit. It was the only room in which
to receive him; the dining-room, and drawing-room, and the little
boudoir upstairs, were not opened. Rose was inclined to leave them as
they were, with the furniture in brown wrappers, for the present; but
she would rather have seen Mr. Murray in any room but the library.

The morning sun was full on the windows that opened to the rather dreary
garden at the back. She wondered why Mr. Murray had written so urgently,
and why Edmund Grosse had not written for several weeks. Up to now they
had done all this horrid business between them, and she had only had
occasional reports from her cousin. Now she must face the subject with
the lawyer himself. She was puzzled to account for the change in the
situation.

At the exact moment he had mentioned, Mr. Murray's tall person with its
heavy, bent head appeared in the library. As they greeted they were both
conscious that it was in this same room, seated at the wide
writing-table still in the same place, and still bearing the large
photograph of Sir David Bright, where he had first told her of the
strange dispositions of her husband's will. He remembered vividly her
look then--undaunted and confident--as she had gently but firmly
asserted that there must be another will. But had she not also said it
would never be found?

But the present occupied the lawyer much more than the past. He was
eager and a little triumphant in his story of the progress of the case,
and did not notice that the sweet face opposite to him became more and
more white as he went on. He told her all he had told Sir Edmund when he
first got back from the yacht; he told of the mysterious visit he had
received from Dr. Larrone, and how he could prove from the letters of
the Florentine detective that Madame D