“Arrange with amethyst.  I agree the price of pearls.  Have no fear of Smithson, but watch Peters.  If London refuses, then Mayfair.  Expect report of Bedford.”

It was not signed by the Baronet’s name, but by the signature he always used on such telegraphic replies:  “Senrab.”

From such a despatch she could gather nothing.  At his request she took away the little blue-covered book and relocked it in the safe.  Then she rang for Hill, and told him to send the despatch by messenger down to Auchterarder village.

“Very well, miss,” replied the man, bowing.

“The car is going down to take Mr. Seymour to the station in about a quarter of an hour, so Stokes will take it.”

“And look here,” exclaimed the blind man, who was standing before the window with his back to the crimson sunset, “you can tell her ladyship, Hill, that I’m very busy, and I shan’t come in to dinner to-night.  Just serve a snack here for me, will you?”

“Very well, Sir Henry,” responded the smart footman; and, bowing again, he closed the door.

“May I dine with you, dad?” asked the girl.  “There are two or three people invited to-night, and they don’t interest me in the least.”

“My dear child, what do you mean?  Why, aren’t Walter Murie and his mother dining here to-night?  I know your mother invited them ten days ago.”

“Oh, why, yes,” replied the girl rather lamely; “I did not recollect.  Then, I suppose, I must put in an appearance,” she sighed.

“Suppose!” he echoed.  “What would Walter think if you elected to dine with me instead of meeting him at table?”

“Now, dad, it is really unkind of you!” she said reprovingly.  “Walter and I thoroughly understand each other.  He’s not surprised at anything I do.”

“Ah!” laughed the sightless man, “he’s already beginning to understand the feminine perverseness, eh?  Well, my child, dine here with me if you wish, by all means.  Tell Hill to lay the table for two.  We have lots of work to do afterwards.”

So the bell was rung again and Hill was informed that Miss Gabrielle would dine with her father in the library.

Then they turned again to the Baronet’s mysterious private affairs; and when she had seated herself at the typewriter and re-read the reports—­confidential reports they were, but framed in a manner which only the old man himself could understand—­he dictated to her cryptic replies, the true nature of which were to her a mystery.

The last of the reports, brief and unsigned, read as follows:—­

“Mon petit garcon est tres gravement malade, et je supplie Dieu a genoux de ne pas me punir si severement, de ne pas me prendre mon enfant.

“D’apres le dernier bulletin du Professeur Knieberger, il a la fievre scarlatine, et l’issue de la maladie est incertaine.  Je ne quitte plus son chevet.  Et sans cesse je me dis, ‘C’est une punition du Ciel.’”