ch
of keys, across the hallway to the room in which Frederick R. Woods
had died. It was his study, you may remember. It had been little
used since his death, but Margaret kept her less important papers
there--the overflow, the flotsam of her vast philanthropic and
educational correspondence.

And there she found Billy Woods.

XII

His back was turned to the door as she entered. He was staring at a
picture beside the mantel--a portrait of Frederick R. Woods--and his
eyes when he wheeled about were wistful.

Then, on a sudden, they lighted up as if they had caught fire from
hers, and his adoration flaunted crimson banners in his cheeks, and
his heart, I dare say, was a great blaze of happiness. He loved her,
you see; when she entered a room it really made a difference to this
absurd young man. He saw a great many lights, for instance, and heard
music. And accordingly, he laughed now in a very contented fashion.

"I wasn't burglarising," said he--"that is, not exactly. I ought to
have asked your permission, I suppose, before coming here, but I
couldn't find you, and--and it was rather important. You see," Mr.
Woods continued, pointing to the great carved desk. "I happened to
speak of this desk to the Colonel to-night. We--we were talking of
Uncle Fred's death, and I found out, quite by accident, that it hadn't
been searched since then--that is, not thoroughly. There are secret
drawers, you see; one here," and he touched the spring that threw
it open, "and the other on this side. There is--there is nothing of
importance in them; only receipted bills and such. The other drawer is
inside that centre compartment, which is locked. The Colonel wouldn't
come. He said it was all foolishness, and that he had a book he wanted
to read. So he sent me after what he called my mare's nest. It isn't,
you see--no, not quite, not quite," Mr. Woods murmured, with an odd
smile, and then laughed and added, lamely: "I--I suppose I'm the only
person who knew about it."

Mr. Woods's manner was a thought strange. He stammered a little in
speaking; he laughed unnecessarily; and Margaret could see that his
hands trembled. Taking him all in all, you would have sworn he was
repressing some vital emotion. But he did not seem unhappy--no, not
exactly unhappy. He was with Margaret, you see.

"Oh, you beauty!" his meditations ran.

He had some excuse. In the soft, rosy twilight of the room--the study
at Selwoode is panelled in very dark oak