ed the cover without reading the inscription, conscious only of a
line of writing in a feminine hand that might be hers or another's. No,
he could wait. The name did not matter. She was his, and that was enough.

Near the book lay an empty envelope, addressed to--he averted his eyes.

He found himself wondering whether Poritol was still kneeling in the
field, and whether Maku was still running, and whether the Japanese
minister was still telling charming stories on the porch at Arradale.

And presently, when she came again, her face radiant, and said softly,
"You have done a great thing, my dear"--when she said that, he could only
look and look and thank Heaven for his blessedness.

"Where were the papers when you fooled me into leaving you?" she asked.

"Arima had them. It's quite a story, Girl, dear."

"Then, wait a little while," she interrupted; "we have permission to see
the papers signed."

A smile of mischief alone betrayed her recognition of his bewilderment.

Why should the signing be treated as a matter of such importance? It must
mean a great deal to her and hers. The hour was now about half-past
eleven, and he remembered that in a short time it would have been too
late.

She led him through the adjoining room and to the curtained doorway of a
library--long, alcoved, shelved with books, and furnished with heavy
leather chairs. In the center was a large table of polished mahogany,
upon which rested a reading-lamp.

The glow of this lamp illuminated the forms and faces of a group of
serious-faced men--two seated, the others standing. In the golden light,
with the dim background of shelves, surmounted here and there by a vase
or a classic bust, the group impressed Orme like a stately painting--a
tableau distinguished by solemn dignity.

"We are to remain here and keep very quiet," whispered the girl.

Orme nodded. His eyes were fixed on the face of a man who sat at the
table, a pen poised in his hand. Those strong, straight features--the
eyes, with their look of sympathetic comprehension, so like the
girl's--the lips, eloquent in their calmness--surely this was her father.
But Orme's heart beat faster, for the face of this man, framed in its
wavy gray hair, was familiar. He seemed to know every line of it.

Where had he seen this man? That they had never met, he felt certain,
unless, indeed, they had shaken hands in a casual and forgotten
introduction.

Or was he led into a feeling of recognition