A few minutes more, and Marston, from the parlor-window, beheld Rhoda and the elegant French girl walking together towards the woodlands.  He watched them gloomily, himself unseen, until the crowding underwood concealed their receding figures.  Then, with a sigh, he turned, and reascended the great staircase.

“I shall sift this mystery to the bottom,” thought he.  “I shall foil the conspirators, if so they be, with their own weapons; art with art; chicane with chicane; duplicity with duplicity.”

He was now in the long passage, which we have just spoken of, and glancing back and before him, to ascertain that no chance eye discerned him, he boldly entered mademoiselle’s chamber.  Her writing desk lay upon the table.  It was locked; and coolly taking it in his hands, Marston carried it into his own room, bolted his chamber-door, and taking two or three bunches of keys, he carefully tried nearly a dozen in succession, and when almost despairing of success, at last found one which fitted the lock, turned, and opened the desk.

Sustained throughout his dishonorable task by some strong and angry passion, the sight of the open escritoire checked and startled him for a moment.  Violated privilege, invaded secrecy, base, perfidious espionage upbraided and stigmatized him, as the intricacies of the outraged sanctuary opened upon his intrusive gaze.  He felt for a moment shocked and humbled.  He was impelled to lock and replace the desk where he had originally found it, without having effected his meditated treason; but this hesitation was transient; the fiery and reckless impulse which had urged him to the act returned to enforce its consummation.  With a guilty eye and eager hands, he searched the contents of this tiny repository of the fair Norman’s written secrets.

“Ha! the very thing,” he muttered, as he detected the identical letter which he himself had handed to Mademoiselle de Barras but a few days before.  “The handwriting struck me, ill-disguised; I thought I knew it; we shall see.”

He had opened the letter; it contained but a few lines:  he held his breath while he read it.  First he grew pale, then a shadow came over his face, and then another, and another, darker and darker, shade upon shade, as if an exhalation from the pit was momentarily blackening the air about him.  He said nothing; there was but one long, gentle sigh, and in his face a mortal sternness, as he folded the letter again, replaced it, and locked the desk.

Of course, when Mademoiselle de Barras returned from her accustomed walk, she found everything in her room, to all appearances, undisturbed, and just as when she left it.  While this young lady was making her toilet for the evening, and while Sir Wynston Berkley was worrying himself with conjectures as to whether Marston’s evil looks, when he encountered him that morning in the passage, existed only in his own fancy, or were, in good truth, very grim and significant