“No, no; that is simply impossible.  By night he has never done this, I know.  By day he could not effect this unseen or unsuspected.  That dining-room is so public, you know, that Morton sees every thing; besides, I gave him directions which he blindly obeyed, I am certain (you know his almost canine obedience to me, Evelyn), to remain, when engaged with the plate, in the adjoining pantry, with the door ajar between, and to be always on guard.  Papa always allowed him the privilege of that room, and I love to continue it, you know, since we never use it except for meals.  You remember I said this when you objected to his sitting there, Evelyn, and remarked that he might as well sit with the other servants, to whom he is so superior.  But of late, I confess, I have had a motive, and Morton knew this”—­I hesitated—­“must have known it.”

“Do you mean to say you confided the secret of the mirror to Morton, and kept it from me?  Thank you, Miriam!” loftily.  “I might have expected this, however.”

“Not wholly this,” I replied, with embarrassment, for I saw how the matter looked externally.  “Morton simply knew that I wanted, for purposes of my own, to exclude every one except himself from solitary possession of the dining-room as much as possible, Mr. Bainrothe especially.  Yes, I told him this, but I kept papa’s secret.  Believe me, Evelyn, I did this, and you know well enough what Morton’s devotion is to me not to believe that he religiously fulfilled my request without asking for an explanation.”

“Yes,” she mused, “I saw him perched up there tonight, as usual, with his old English newspapers, and I have observed that he never leaves his post there, while Mr. Bainrothe remains.  You could not have procured a better watchman, surely; but why have you watched at all?”

“Because,” I said, “I felt sure that mystery lurked behind those nocturnal visits.  You cannot doubt this yourself, Evelyn, and, with your opinion of Mr. Bainrothe, must see that I felt I had good reason for mistrust.  I was determined to be present when that chest should next be opened by him.”

A smile quivered across her face.  “I had not suspected you of so much diplomacy,” she observed, dryly; “but, after all, Miriam, how does this change the posture of affairs to me?  I shall be all the same, poor and dependent.”

“No, Evelyn, no indeed!  I promise you faithfully.—­But what is this?” I exclaimed, rising hastily from my knees, “I am faint—­blind!  Quick, the drops Dr. Pemberton left for me, Evelyn, or I am lost again.”

I threw myself across the foot of her bed, sick and bewildered, yet feeling myself gradually—­after a few moments of oppression—­growing better, in spite of the dark effort of my evil genius to gain his fatal ascendency.

When she came with the drops, after some delay, I was, to her surprise, able to sit up and look around me.  The spell was over.

“I believe I have troubled you uselessly,” I said; “I will go to bed without medicine to-night, I think, and strive to be calm, as Dr. Pemberton enjoined me to do, and there was good sense in his advice, certainly.  We have so much to do to-morrow, Evelyn—­we two must remove these deposits ourselves.  But not a word to Bainrothe!”