“There! that is the last of that!” Mrs. Montague said, as she watched the flames curl about the beautiful face in the grate.  “I’m glad the girl didn’t keep the picture herself; I believe that all my previous suspicions would have been aroused if she had.  It can’t be that she is Mona’s child, for she has always been so indifferent when I have questioned her.  Possibly she may be a descendant of some other branch of the family, and does not know it.  My only regret is that I did not try to see that other girl before Walter Dinsmore died; then I should have been sure.  I wonder where she can be?  And to think that Mona Forester should have had an uncle to turn up just at this time!  I didn’t suppose she had a relative in the world besides the child.”

Her musings were cut short at this point by the return of Mary with the water.  She poured out a glassful for her mistress, and then was told that she might go.

The lady set down the glass without even tasting its contents; then rising, went to the door and locked it, after which she walked to a small table which stood in a bay-window, and removed the marble top, carefully laying it upon the floor.

This act revealed instead of the usual skeleton stand where a marble top is used a polished table of solid cherry, with what appeared to be a lid in the top, and in which there was a small brass-bound key-hole.

Drawing a bunch of keys from her pocket, Mrs. Montague selected a tiny one from among the others, inserted it in the lock, and the next moment the lid in the table was lifted, thus revealing a secret compartment underneath.

This was filled with various things—­paper boxes, packages of various forms and sizes, together with some documents and letters.

Drawing a chair before the table, the woman sat down and began to examine the letters.

There was an intensely bitter expression on her face—­a frown on her brow, a sneer on her lips—­which so disfigured it that scarcely any one would have recognized her as the brilliant and beautiful woman of the world who so charmed every one in society.

There were perhaps a dozen letters in the package which she took out of the table, and these, as she untied the ribbon that bound them together, and slipped them through her fingers, were all addressed in a delicate and beautiful style of penmanship.

She snatched one from the others, and passionately tore it across, envelope and all.  Then she suddenly dropped them on her lap, a shiver running over her, her cheek paling with some inward emotion.

“Ugh! they give me a ghostly feeling!  My flesh creeps!  I feel almost as if Mona Forester herself were standing beside me, and had laid her dead hand upon me.  I cannot look them over—­I will tie them up again and burn them all at once,” she muttered, in a hoarse tone.

She gathered them up, and hastily wound the ribbon about them, laying them upon the table beside her, then proceeded with her examination of the other contents of the secret compartment.