om a sense of having nothing
to do. Then he drew the back of his forefinger along the books on the
shelf, as if nothing interested him in them, and strolled to the shelf
in front of the desk at which Murray Bradshaw had stood. He took down
the second volume of the Corpus Juris Civilis, turned the leaves over
mechanically, as if in search of some title, and replaced it.

He looked round for a moment. Mr. Penhallow was writing hard at his
table, not thinking of him, it was plain enough. He laid his hand on the
FIRST volume of the Corpus Juris Civilis. There was a document shut up
in it. His hand was on the book, whether taking it out or putting
it back was not evident, when the door opened and Mr. William Murray
Bradshaw entered.

"Ah, Mr. Gridley," he said, "you are not studying the civil law, are
you?" He strode towards him as he spoke, his face white, his eyes fixed
fiercely on him.

"It always interests me, Mr. Bradshaw," he answered, "and this is a fine
edition of it. One may find a great many valuable things in the Corpus
Juris Civilis."

He looked impenetrable, and whether or not he had seen more than Mr.
Bradshaw wished him to see, that gentleman could not tell. But there
stood the two books in their place, and when, after Master Gridley had
gone, he looked in the first volume, there was the document he had shut
up in it.

CHAPTER VII. MYRTLE'S LETTER--THE YOUNG MEN'S PURSUIT.

"You know all about it, Olive?" Cyprian Eveleth said to his sister,
after a brief word of greeting.

"Know of what, Cyprian?"

"Why, sister, don't you know that Myrtle Hazard is missing,--gone!--gone
nobody knows where, and that we are looking in all directions to find
her?"

Olive turned very pale and was silent for a moment. At the end of that
moment the story seemed almost old to her. It was a natural ending of
the prison-life which had been round Myrtle since her earliest years.
When she got large and strong enough, she broke out of jail,--that was
all. The nursery-bar is always climbed sooner or later, whether it is a
wooden or an iron one. Olive felt as if she had dimly foreseen just
such a finishing to the tragedy of the poor girl's home bringing-up. Why
could not she have done something to prevent it? Well,--what shall we do
now, and as it is?--that is the question.

"Has she left no letter,--no explanation of her leaving in this way?"

"Not a word, so far as anybody in the village knows."

"Come over to the po