to dust in the fire;
and, observing that a strong odor remained in the room, he deliberately
turned on the unlighted gas for a few minutes. After this he opened
the window, sealed his own seal in red wax on paper a great many times,
finally burning the collection, and lit a large cigar, which he smoked
through with every appearance of enjoyment. While engaged on this
portion of his task, he helped himself frequently to sherry from the
glass, first carefully rinsed, into which he had poured the liquid from
the now unlabelled phial. Lastly he put the phial in his pocket with
the little syringe, stored the six oranges, wrapped in delicate paper,
within the basket, and closed the window.

Next he unlocked the door, and, without opening it, remarked in a sweet
voice:

"Now, Alice, you may come in!"

The handle turned, and the housekeeper entered.

"How is Miss Burnside?" he asked, in the same silvery accents. (He had
told Margaret that she had better be known by that name, for the present
at least.)

"She is asleep. I hope she may never waken. What do you want with her?
Why are you keeping her in this house? What devil's brew have you been
making that smells of gas and sherry and sealing-wax?"

"My dear girl," replied Mr. Cranley, "you put too many questions at
once. As to your first pair of queries, my reasons for taking care
of Miss Burnside are my own business, and do not concern you, as my
housekeeper. As to the 'devil's brew' which you indicate in a style
worthy rather of the ages of Faith and of Alchemy, than of an epoch of
positive science, did you never taste sherry and sealing-wax? If you
did not, that is one of the very few alcoholic combinations in which you
have never, to my knowledge, attempted experiments. Is there any
other matter on which I can enlighten an intelligent and respectful
curiosity?"

The fair woman's blue eyes and white face seemed to glitter with anger,
like a baleful lightning.

"I don't understand your chaff," she said, with a few ornamental
epithets, which, in moments when she was deeply stirred, were apt to
decorate her conversation.

"I grieve to be obscure," he answered; "_brevis esse laboro_, the old
story. But, as you say Miss Burnside is sleeping, and as, when she
wakens, she may be feverish, will you kindly carry these oranges and
leave them on a plate by her bedside? They are Jaffa oranges, and finer
fruit, Alice, my dear, I have seldom tasted! After that, go to Cavendish