at I was going to visit my aunt at Beckby, but
instead of going there direct, we contrived to be at the station at Eaton
a minute or two before the mail train came up. I kept outside the
station door till we heard the whistle, and just then the postman came
running down the road, and I followed him straight through the
booking-office, and asked him to give you the order, which I put into his
hand. He scarcely saw me. I just caught a glimpse of Monsieur Bonnard's
face through the window of the compartment next the van, when Alfred had
gone. They had promised me that the train should stop at Camden-town, if
I could only keep your attention engaged until then. You know how I
succeeded."

"But how did you dispose of the box?" I asked. "You could not have
concealed it about you; that I am sure of."

"Ah!" she said, "nothing was easier. Monsieur Bonnard had described the
van to me, and you remember I put the box down at the end of the counter,
close to the corner where I hid myself at every station. There was a
door with a window in it, and I asked if I might have the window open, as
the van was too warm for me. I believe Monsieur Bonnard could have taken
it from me by only leaning through his window, but he preferred stepping
out, and taking it from my hand, just as the train was leaving
Watford--on the far side of the carriages, you understand. It was the
last station, and the train came to a stand at Camden-town. After all,
the box was not out of your sight more than twenty minutes before you
missed it. Monsieur Bonnard and I hurried out of the station, and Alfred
followed us. The box was forced open--the lock has never been mended,
for it was a peculiar one--and Monsieur Bonnard took possession of the
papers. He left the box with me, after putting inside it a roll of
notes. Alfred and I were married next morning, and I went back to my
aunt's; but we did not tell papa of our marriage for three or four
months. That is the story of my red morocco workbox."

She smiled with the provoking mirthfulness of a mischievous child. There
was one point still, on which my curiosity was unsatisfied.

"Did you know what the despatches were about?" I asked.

"O no!" she answered; "I never understood politics in the least. I knew
nothing about them. Monsieur did not say a word; he did not even look at
the papers while we were by. I would never, never, have taken a
registered letter, or anything with money in it, you