upation of that thought. What
was Beale's business? Why did he employ her to copy out this list of
American and Canadian statistics? Why did he want to know all these
hotels, their proprietors, the chief of the police and the like? She
wished she had her papers and books so that she might go on extracting
that interminable list.

What would van Heerden do now? Would her attempted escape change his
plans? How would he overcome the difficulty of marrying a girl who was
certain to denounce him in the presence of so independent a witness as a
clergyman? She would die before she married him, she told herself.

She could not rest, and walked about the room examining the framed
prints and looking at the books, and occasionally walking to the glass
above the dressing-chest to see if any sign was left of the red mark on
her cheek where van Heerden's hand had fallen. This exercise gave her a
curious satisfaction, and when she saw that the mark had subsided and
was blending more to the colour of her skin she felt disappointed.
Startled, she analysed this curious mental attitude and again came to
Beale. She wanted Beale to see the place. She wanted Beale's sympathy.
She wanted Beale's rage--she was sure he would rage.

She laughed to herself and for want of other and better amusement walked
to the drawers in the dressing-bureau and examined their contents. They
were empty and unlocked save one, which refused to respond to her tug.
She remembered she had a small bunch of keys in her bag.

"I am going to be impertinent. Forgive the liberty," she said, as she
felt the lock give to the first attempt.

She pulled the drawer open. It contained a few articles of feminine
attire and a thick black leather portfolio. She lifted this out, laid it
on the table and opened it. It was filled with foolscap. Written on the
cover was the word "Argentine" and somehow the writing was familiar to
her. It was a bold hand, obviously feminine.

"Where have I seen that before?" she asked, and knit her forehead.

She turned the first leaf and read:

"Alsigar Hotel, Fournos, Proprietor, Miguel Porcorini. Index 2."

Her mouth opened in astonishment and she ran down the list. She took out
another folder. It was marked "Canada," and she turned the leaves
rapidly. She recognized this work. It was the same work that Beale had
given to her, a list of the hotels, their proprietors and means of
conveyance, but there was no reference to the police. And then