"

"It is full of matter which must never be given to the world--my secret
thoughts, my aspirations. The whole history of my soul is there."

"Heavens! It must be found."

They searched the writing-table. They searched the room. No diary.

"Could you have taken it to my room, and left it there?" asked Mr.
Greyne.

They hastened thither, and looked--in vain. By this time the servants
were gone to bed, and the two searchers were quite alone on the ground
floor of their magnificent mansion. Mrs. Greyne began to look seriously
perturbed. Her Roman features worked.

"This is appalling," she exclaimed. "Some thief, knowing it priceless,
must have stolen the diary. It will be published in America. It will
bring in thousands--but to others, not to us."

She began to wring her hands. It was near midnight.

"Think, my love, think!" cried Mr. Greyne. "Where could you have taken
it? You had it last night?"

"Certainly. I remember writing in it that you would be sailing to
Algiers on the _General Bertrand_ on Thursday of this week, and that on
the night I should be feeling widowed here. The previous night I wrote
that yesterday I should have to tell you of your mission. You know I
always put down beforehand what I shall do, what I shall even think
on each succeeding day. It is a practice that regulates the mind and
conduct, that helps to uniformity."

"How true! Who can have taken it? Do you ever leave it about?"

"Never. Am I a madwoman?"

"My darling, compose yourself! We must search the house."

They proceeded to do so, and, on coming into the schoolroom, Mrs.
Greyne, who was in front, uttered a sudden cry.

Upon the table of Mademoiselle Verbena lay the diary, open at the
following entry:--

On Thursday next poor Eustace will be on board the _General Bertrand_,
sailing for Algiers. I shall be here thinking of myself, and of him in
relation to myself. God help us both. Duty is sometimes stern. Mem. The
corner house in Park Lane, next the Duke of Ebury's, has sixty years
still to run; the lease, that is. Thursday--poor Eustace!

"What does this portend?" cried Mrs. Greyne.

"My darling, it passes my wit to imagine," replied her husband.

III

The parting of Mr. and Mrs. Greyne on the following morning was very
affecting. It took place at Victoria Station, in the midst of a small
crowd of admiring strangers, who had recognised the commanding
presence of the great novelist, and had gathered round to obs