e price of pearls. Have no fear of
Smithson, but watch Peters. If London refuses, then Mayfair. Expect
report of Bedford."

It was not signed by the Baronet's name, but by the signature he always
used on such telegraphic replies: "Senrab."

From such a despatch she could gather nothing. At his request she took
away the little blue-covered book and relocked it in the safe. Then she
rang for Hill, and told him to send the despatch by messenger down to
Auchterarder village.

"Very well, miss," replied the man, bowing.

"The car is going down to take Mr. Seymour to the station in about a
quarter of an hour, so Stokes will take it."

"And look here," exclaimed the blind man, who was standing before the
window with his back to the crimson sunset, "you can tell her ladyship,
Hill, that I'm very busy, and I shan't come in to dinner to-night. Just
serve a snack here for me, will you?"

"Very well, Sir Henry," responded the smart footman; and, bowing again,
he closed the door.

"May I dine with you, dad?" asked the girl. "There are two or three
people invited to-night, and they don't interest me in the least."

"My dear child, what do you mean? Why, aren't Walter Murie and his
mother dining here to-night? I know your mother invited them ten days
ago."

"Oh, why, yes," replied the girl rather lamely; "I did not recollect.
Then, I suppose, I must put in an appearance," she sighed.

"Suppose!" he echoed. "What would Walter think if you elected to dine
with me instead of meeting him at table?"

"Now, dad, it is really unkind of you!" she said reprovingly. "Walter
and I thoroughly understand each other. He's not surprised at anything I
do."

"Ah!" laughed the sightless man, "he's already beginning to understand
the feminine perverseness, eh? Well, my child, dine here with me if you
wish, by all means. Tell Hill to lay the table for two. We have lots of
work to do afterwards."

So the bell was rung again and Hill was informed that Miss Gabrielle
would dine with her father in the library.

Then they turned again to the Baronet's mysterious private affairs; and
when she had seated herself at the typewriter and re-read the
reports--confidential reports they were, but framed in a manner which
only the old man himself could understand--he dictated to her cryptic
replies, the true nature of which were to her a mystery.

The last of the reports, brief and unsigned, read as follows:--

"Mon petit garcon est tres gravement