“What was the urgent subject on which you wanted to see me, knowing that my Father was—­not available?” The pause showed her mastery of her thoughts.

The instantaneous change in Mr. Corbeck was almost ludicrous.  His start of surprise, coming close upon his iron-clad impassiveness, was like a pantomimic change.  But all idea of comedy was swept away by the tragic earnestness with which he remembered his original purpose.

“My God!” he said, as he raised his hand from the chair back on which it rested, and beat it down with a violence which would in itself have arrested attention.  His brows corrugated as he went on:  “I quite forgot!  What a loss!  Now of all times!  Just at the moment of success!  He lying there helpless, and my tongue tied!  Not able to raise hand or foot in my ignorance of his wishes!”

“What is it?  Oh, do tell us!  I am so anxious about my dear Father!  Is it any new trouble?  I hope not! oh, I hope not!  I have had such anxiety and trouble already!  It alarms me afresh to hear you speak so!  Won’t you tell me something to allay this terrible anxiety and uncertainty?”

He drew his sturdy form up to his full height as he said: 

“Alas!  I cannot, may not, tell you anything.  It is his secret.”  He pointed to the bed.  “And yet—­and yet I came here for his advice, his counsel, his assistance.  And he lies there helpless. . . .  And time is flying by us!  It may soon be too late!”

“What is it? what is it?” broke in Miss Trelawny in a sort of passion of anxiety, her face drawn with pain.  “Oh, speak!  Say something!  This anxiety, and horror, and mystery are killing me!” Mr. Corbeck calmed himself by a great effort.

“I may not tell you details; but I have had a great loss.  My mission, in which I have spent three years, was successful.  I discovered all that I sought—­and more; and brought them home with me safely.  Treasures, priceless in themselves, but doubly precious to him by whose wishes and instructions I sought them.  I arrived in London only last night, and when I woke this morning my precious charge was stolen.  Stolen in some mysterious way.  Not a soul in London knew that I was arriving.  No one but myself knew what was in the shabby portmanteau that I carried.  My room had but one door, and that I locked and bolted.  The room was high in the house, five stories up, so that no entrance could have been obtained by the window.  Indeed, I had closed the window myself and shut the hasp, for I wished to be secure in every way.  This morning the hasp was untouched. . . .  And yet my portmanteau was empty.  The lamps were gone! . . .  There! it is out.  I went to Egypt to search for a set of antique lamps which Mr. Trelawny wished to trace.  With incredible labour, and through many dangers, I followed them.  I brought them safe home. . . .  And now!” He turned away much moved.  Even his iron nature was breaking down under the sense of loss.