Not just at first.  There were many tempting odds and ends of things to dip into.  For one thing, she found Val’s banking book, and some old cheque-books; they served her for some time.  Next she came upon two packets sealed up in white paper, with Val’s own seal.  On one was written, “Letters of Lady Maude;” on the other, “Letters of my dear Anne.”  Peering further into the desk, she came upon an obscure inner slide, which had evidently not been opened for years, and she had difficulty in undoing it.  A paper was in it, superscribed, “Concerning A.W.;” on opening which she found a letter addressed to Thomas Carr, of the Temple.

Thomas Carr’s letters were no more sacred with her than Lord Hartledon’s.  No woman living was troubled with scruples so little as she.  It proved to have been written by a Dr. Mair, in Scotland, and was dated several years back.

But now—­did Lord Hartledon really know he had that dangerous letter by him?  If so, what could have possessed him to preserve it?  Or, did he not rather believe he had returned it to Mr. Carr at the time?  The latter, indeed, proved to be the case; and never, to the end of his life, would he, in one sense, forgive his own carelessness.

Who was A.W.? thought the curious old woman, as she drew the light nearer to her, and began the tempting perusal, making the most of the little time left.  They could not be at tea yet, and she had told Lady Hartledon she was going to take her nap in her own room.  The gratification of rummaging false Val’s desk was an ample compensation; and the countess-dowager hugged herself with delight.

But what was this she had come upon—­this paper “concerning A. W.”?  The dowager’s mouth fell as she read; and gradually her little eyes opened as if they would start from their sockets, and her face grew white.  Have you ever watched the livid pallor of fear struggling to one of these painted faces?  She dashed off her spectacles; she got up and wrung her hands; she executed a frantic war-dance; and finally she tore, with the letter, into the drawing-room, where Val and Anne and Thomas Carr were beginning tea and talking quietly.

They rose in consternation as she danced in amongst them, and held out the letter to Lord Hartledon.

He took it from her, gazing in utter bewilderment as he gathered in its contents.  Was it a fresh letter, or—­his face became whiter than the dowager’s.  In her reckless passion she avowed what she had done—­the letter was secreted in his desk.

“Have you dared to visit my desk?” he gasped—­“break my seals?  Are you mad?”

“Hark at him!” she cried.  “He calls me to account for just lifting the lid of a desk!  But what is he?  A villain—­a thief—­a spy—­a murderer—­and worse than any of them!  Ah, ha, my lady!” nodding her false front at Lady Hartledon, who stood as one petrified, “you stare there at me with your open eyes; but you don’t know what you are!  Ask him!  What was Maude—­Heaven help her—­my poor Maude?  What was she?  And you in the plot; you vile Carr!  I’ll have you all hanged together!”