mmersed again in
his occupation, so deeply immersed that at the opening of the door he did
not turn his head.

Holmes paused just inside the room. "If you please, sir--"

"Ah, put it down, put it down!" said the Frenchman impatiently. "I am
busy."

But Holmes, being empty-handed, did not comply with the request. He
remained hesitating, obviously doubtful, till with a sharp jerk de
Montville turned in his chair.

"What is it, then? I have told you--I am busy."

Holmes looked apologetic. He found the abrupt ways of the new secretary
somewhat disconcerting. "It's a young lady, sir," he explained rather
diffidently. "It's Miss Wyndham. She run in here for shelter, and, seeing
as Mr. Mordaunt be out, I didn't know whether you would wish me to show
her up or not, sir."

Bertrand was on his feet in a moment. "A young lady! Miss Wyndham! Who
is--Miss Wyndham?"

"It's the young lady as Mr. Mordaunt is a-going to marry," said Holmes,
dropping his voice confidentially. "I told her as Mr. Mordaunt weren't
in, and she said as she'd like to wait. Didn't know quite what to do,
sir. Would you like me to show her up?"

"But certainly!" De Montville's eyebrows had gone up an inch, but he
lowered them hastily and smiled. Doubtless it was an English custom,
this; he must not display surprise. "Beg her to ascend," he said. "Mr.
Mordaunt may return at any moment. He would not wish his _fiancee_ to
remain below."

"Very good, sir." Holmes withdrew, leaving the door ajar.

Bertrand remained upon his feet, watching it expectantly.

At the sound of voices on the stairs he smiled involuntarily. But how
they were droll--these English ladies! Would he ever accustom himself--

"Miss Wyndham, sir!" It was Holmes again, opening the door wide to usher
in the unexpected visitor.

Bertrand bowed low.

The visitor paused an instant on the threshold, then came briskly
forward. "Oh," she said, "are you the organ-grinder?"

He straightened himself with a jerk; he looked at her. And suddenly a cry
rang through the room--a cry that came straight from a woman's heart,
inarticulate, thrilled through and through with a rapture beyond words.
And in a moment Bertrand de Montville, outcast and wanderer on the face
of the earth, had shed the bitter burden that weighed him down, had
leaped the dark dividing gulf that separated him from the dear land of
his dreams, and stood once more upon the sands of Valpre, with a girl's
hands fast clasped in his