This went on all day, and I had almost made up my mind to send for Dr. Perkins, when, after late dinner, she suddenly sank into an arm-chair with a look of relief.

“I know what it is,” she said; “it is my diamonds!”

“Your diamonds, Aunt Phoebe!” I exclaimed.  “Why, I locked them up for you myself in your dressing-box when we came home last night!”

“Are you sure, Elizabeth?” she asked with an anxious, worried expression.

“Quite sure,” I answered; “but if it will satisfy you, I will bring down your dressing-box now and let you see.”

“Do, there’s a dear child!  I declare I feel too tired to move another step.”

I was not surprised at this, considering how she had been fussing about all day, and I ran up to her bed-room, brought down her rosewood dressing-box and placed it on the table in front of her.

I was greatly struck by the nervous trembling of her fingers as she chose out the right key from amongst the others in her bunch, and the shaky way in which she fitted it into the lock.  Even when she had turned the key she seemed half afraid to raise the lid, so I did it for her, and, taking out the first tray, lifted out the morocco case which contained the heirlooms and laid it in her lap.

Aunt Phoebe tremblingly touched the spring, the case flew open and disclosed the diamonds lying snugly on their bed of blue velvet.  She took them out and looked at them lovingly, held them up so that they might catch the light from the lamp, and then with a sigh replaced them in their case and shut it with a snap.

I waited for a few minutes, then, as she did not speak, I put out my hand for the case, intending to replace it in the dressing-box and take it upstairs.  But Aunt Phoebe clutched it tightly, staggered to her feet and said in a husky, unnatural voice, “No, I must take it myself.”

“Why, you said you were too tired!” I began, but before I could finish my sentence she had left the room, and I heard her going upstairs and opening the door of her bed-room.

Some few minutes afterwards I heard her steps once more on the stairs, and I waited, expecting her every moment to open the drawing-room door and walk in; but to my astonishment I heard her pass by, and a moment afterwards the clang of the front door as it was hastily shut told me that Aunt Phoebe had left the house.

“She must be mad!” I exclaimed to myself as I rushed to the hall, seized up the first hat I could see, flung a shawl over my shoulders, and tore off in pursuit of my runaway relative.

It was quite dark, but I caught sight of her as she passed by a lamp-post.  She was walking quickly, quicker than I had ever seen her walk before, and with evidently some set purpose in her mind.  I ran after her as fast as I could, and came up with her as she was turning down a small dark lane leading, as I knew, to a little court, the home of a very poor but respectable section of the inhabitants of Bishopsthorpe.