“I thought you did all that through Cousin Endsleigh Jarrott and Mr. Conquest?”

“This was a little thing I couldn’t trouble them with.”

“And you went straight off to him, when you’d only known him—­let me see!—­how many days?—­one, two, three, four—­”

“I’ve gone to people I didn’t know at all—­sometimes.  You have to.  If you only knew more about investing money—­”

“I don’t know anything about investing money; but I know this is very queer.  And you didn’t like him—­or you said you didn’t.”

“I said I did, dear—­after a fashion—­and so I do.”

“In that case I should think a good deal would depend upon the fashion.  Look here.  It’s addressed—­Miss Strange. That’s his writing.  That’s how he scribbles his name.  And there’s something written in tiny, tiny letters in the corner.  What is it?” Without touching the envelope she bent down to see.  “It’s The Wild Olive.  Now, what in this world can that mean?  That’s not business, anyhow.  That means something.”

“No, that’s not business, but I haven’t an idea what it means.”  Miriam was glad to be able to disclaim something.  “It was probably on the envelope by accident.  Some clerk wrote it, and Mr. Strange didn’t notice it.”

Evie let the explanation pass, while continuing to stare at the object of her suspicions.

“That’s not papers,” she said, at last, pointing as she spoke to something protruding between the rubber bands.  “There’s something in there.  It looks like a”—­she hesitated to find the right article—­“it looks like a card-case.”

“Perhaps it is,” Miriam agreed.  “But I’m sure I don’t know why he should bring me a card-case.”

“Why don’t you look?”

“I wasn’t in a hurry; but you can look yourself if you want to.”

Evie took offence.  “I’m sure I don’t want to.  That’s the last thing.”

“I wish you would.  Then you’d see.”

“I only do it under protest,” she declared—­“because you force me to.”  She took up the envelope, and began to unloose the rubber bands. “The Wild Olive” she quoted, half to herself.  “Ridiculous!  I should think clerks might have something better to do than write such things as that—­on envelopes—­on people’s business.”  But her indignation turned to surprise when a small flat thing, not unlike a card-case, certainly, tumbled out.  “What in the name of goodness—?”

Only strong self-control kept Miriam from darting forward to snatch it from the floor.  She remembered it at once.  It was a worn red leather pocket-book, which she had last seen when it was fresh and new—­sitting in the sunset, on the heights above Champlain, and looking at the jewelled sea.  A card fell from it, on which there was something written.  Evie dropped on one knee to pick it up.  Miriam was sorry to risk anything, but she felt constrained to say, as quietly as possible: 

“You’d better not read that, dear.  It might be private.”