g and reception room, and at the
extreme end of the landing, of a small study, which, when Sir Percy did
not use it, was always kept locked. His own special and confidential
valet, Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever allowed to go
inside. My lady had never cared to do so, and the other servants, had,
of course, not dared to break this hard-and-fast rule.

Marguerite had often, with that good-natured contempt which she had
recently adopted towards her husband, chaffed him about this secrecy
which surrounded his private study. Laughingly she had always declared
that he strictly excluded all prying eyes from his sanctum for fear they
should detect how very little "study" went on within its four walls: a
comfortable arm-chair for Sir Percy's sweet slumbers was, no doubt, its
most conspicuous piece of furniture.

Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October morning as she
glanced along the corridor. Frank was evidently busy with his master's
rooms, for most of the doors stood open, that of the study amongst the
others.

A sudden burning, childish curiosity seized her to have a peep at Sir
Percy's sanctum. This restriction, of course, did not apply to her, and
Frank would, of course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped that
the valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, that she might have
that one quick peep in secret, and unmolested.

Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like Blue Beard's wife,
trembling half with excitement and wonder, she paused a moment on the
threshold, strangely perturbed and irresolute.

The door was ajar, and she could not see anything within. She pushed it
open tentatively: there was no sound: Frank was evidently not there, and
she walked boldly in.

At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of everything around
her: the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture, the one or
two maps on the wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man about
town, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of fashion, that
was the outward representation of Sir Percy Blakeney.

There was no sign here, at any rate, of hurried departure. Everything
was in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor, not a
cupboard or drawer was left open. The curtains were drawn aside, and
through the open window the fresh morning air was streaming in.

Facing the window, and well into the centre of the room, stood a
ponderous business-like desk, which loo