be formalities to be observed
regarding it, and although she was not at all sure what they were, Mr.
Benton would of course know.

But search as she would, the white envelope with its imposing red seal was
nowhere to be found. She went through every drawer in her bureau, every
pigeonhole in her desk; she ransacked closet and bookshelf; she even
emptied all her belongings upon the bed and examined each article
carefully to see if the missing document had by any chance strayed into a
fantastic hiding place; but the paper failed to come to light.

What could have become of it? The envelope had been there, that she knew.
Only a week ago she had seen it in the top drawer of her desk. She would
stake her oath that she had not removed it. Vague disquietude took
possession of her. Tony had always been honest, and of Melvina's integrity
there could be no question. As for Ellen, had she not herself put the will
into the girl's keeping--as a weapon with which to meet this very
emergency? It was incredible, preposterous to assume that she had taken it
back, especially when one considered her helplessness to do so unaided.
That solution might as well be dismissed as ridiculous.

The paper was lost, that was all there was to it. Lost!

In her own absent-mindedness, or in a moment of confusion and weariness,
she had either accidentally destroyed it, or she had removed it from its
customary place to a safer spot and forgotten where she had put it.

Yet, after all, how foolish it was of her to worry. Doubtless Mr. Benton
had a copy of the document, and if she made full confession of her
stupidity he would know what to do. Didn't lawyers always keep copies of
every legal paper they drew up? They must of course do so.

Therefore without breathing a word of her troubles to the Howes--not even
to Martin--she set forth to the village, her dreams of redecorating the
house being thrust, for the time being, entirely into the background by
this disquieting happening.

Mr. Benton was alone in his stuffy little office when she arrived.
Evidently his professional duties were not pressing, for he was hunched up
over a small air-tight stove and amid a smudge of tobacco smoke was
reading "Pickwick Papers." At the entrance of a client, however, and this
client in particular, he rose in haste, and slipping simultaneously into
his alpaca coat and his legal manner--the two seemed to be a one-piece
garment--held out his hand with a mixture of solicit