Leaving it open on the desk, where he could not fail to see it, she glanced once more at the portrait, and hurried away, fearful of being intercepted ere she reached the carriage.

“Drive to No. 900, East ——­ Street.”

The carriage had not turned the neighbouring corner, when Mr. Palma leisurely approached his office door, with his thoughts intent upon an important will case, which was creating much interest and discussion among the members of the Bar, and which in an appeal form he had that day consented to argue before the Supreme Court.  As he entered the front room, the clerk looked up.

“Stuart, has Elliott brought back the papers?”

“Not yet, sir.  There was a young lady here a moment ago.  Did you meet her?”

“No.  What was her business?”

“She did not say.  Asked for you, and would not wait.”

“What name?”

“Did not give any.  Think she left a note on your desk.  She was the loveliest creature I ever looked at.”

“My desk?  Hereafter in my absence allow no one to enter my private office.  I did not consider it necessary to caution you, or inform you that my desk is not public property, but designed for my exclusive service.  In future when I am out keep that door locked.  Step around to Fitzgerald’s and get that volume of Reports he borrowed last week.”  The young man coloured, picked up his hat, and disappeared; and the lawyer walked into his sanctum and approached his desk.

Seating himself in the large revolving chair, his eyes fell instantly upon the long sheet, with the few lines traced in a delicate feminine hand.

Over his cold face swept a marvellous change, strangely softening its outlines and expression.  He examined the writing curiously, taking off his glasses and holding the paper close to his eyes; and he detected the alteration in the “Dear,” which had evidently been commenced as “My.”

Laying it open before him, he took the pen, wrote “my” before the “dear,” and drawing a line through the “Regina Orme,” substituted above it “Lily.”

In her haste she had left on the desk one glove, and her small ivory porte-monnaie which her mother had sent from Rome.

He took up the little pearl-grey kid, redolent of Lubin’s “violet,” and spread out the almost childishly small fingers on his own broad palm, which suddenly closed over it like a vice; then with a half smile of strange tenderness, in which all the stony sternness of lips and chin seemed steeped and melted, he drew the glove softly, caressingly over his bronzed cheek.

Pressing the spring of the purse, it opened and showed him two small gold dollars, and a five dollar bill.  In another compartment, wrapped in tissue paper, was a small bunch of pressed violets, tied with a bit of blue sewing silk.  Upon the inside of the paper was written: 

“Gathered at Agra.  April 8th, 18—.”

He knew Mr. Lindsay’s handwriting, and his teeth closed firmly as he refolded the paper, and put the purse and glove in the inside breast pocket of his coat.  Placing the note in an envelope, he addressed it to “Erle Palma,” and locked it up in a private drawer.