“Now, tell me all about it,” she said, taking a chair quite across the big room.

“There’s nothing to tell,” he said.  “I am in Brussels, and I thought I’d hunt you up.”

“But why didn’t you write or wire me that you were coming?  You haven’t acted much like a friend,” she said, pointedly.

“Perhaps I wrote and never mailed the letter.  Remember your experience just now.  You still hold the unlucky note in your hand.  Sometimes we think better of our intentions at the very instant when they are going into effect.  It is very mysterious to me that you wouldn’t mail that letter.  I can only believe that you changed your mind when you saw me.”

“How absurd!  As if seeing you could have anything to do with it!”

“You ought to tell me if my appearance here is liable to alter any plan that letter is intended to perfect.  Don’t let me be an inconvenience.  You know I’d rather be anything than an inconvenience. ’

“It doesn’t matter in the least; really, it doesn’t.  Your coming—­”

The footman appeared on the landing above at that instant and said something to her in a language Quentin could not understand.  He afterward heard it was French.  And he always had thought himself a pretty fair French scholar, too.

“Mamma has asked for me, Phil.  Will you pardon me if I leave you alone for a moment?” she said, arising and starting toward the grand stairway.  The letter, which she had forgotten for the moment, fell from her lap to the rug.  In an instant he had stepped forward to pick it up.  As he stooped she realized what had happened, and, with a frantic little cry, stooped also.  Their heads were close together, but his hand was the first to touch the missive.  It lay with the address upward, plain to the eye; he could not help seeing the name.

It was addressed to “Philip Quentin, Esq., care of the Earl of Saxondale, Park Lane, London, W. S.”  Surprise stayed his fingers, and hers clutched the envelope ruthlessly.  As they straightened themselves each was looking directly into the other’s eyes.  In hers there was shame, confusion, even guilt; in his, triumphant, tantalizing mirth.

“My letter, please,” he said, his voice trembling, he knew not why.  His hand was extended.  She drew suddenly away and a wave of scarlet crossed her face.

“What a stupid I was to drop it,” she cried, almost tearfully.  Then she laughed as the true humor of the situation made itself felt in spite of consequences.  “Isn’t it too funny for anything?”

“I can’t see anything funny in tampering with the mails.  You have my letter, and I hope it won’t be necessary for me to call in the officers of the law.”

“You don’t expect me to give it to you?” she cried, holding it behind her.

“Most assuredly.  If you don’t, I’ll ask Mrs. Garrison to command you to do so,” he threatened, eagerly.  He would have given his head to read the contents of the letter that caused her so much concern.  All sorts of conjectures were racing through his brain.