‘You kept it in your inner drawer, Paul Lessingham, where none but you could see it,—did you? You hid it as one hides treasure. There should be something here worth having, worth seeing, worth knowing,—yes, worth knowing!—since you found it worth your while to hide it up so closely.’
As I have said, the packet was bound about by a string of pink ribbon,—a fact on which he presently began to comment.
‘With what a pretty string you have encircled it,—and how neatly it is tied! Surely only a woman’s hand could tie a knot like that,—who would have guessed yours were such agile fingers?—So! An endorsement on the cover! What’s this?—let’s see what’s written!—“The letters of my dear love, Marjorie Lindon.”’
As he read these words, which, as he said, were endorsed upon the outer sheet of paper
