said, with her thought apparent in her candid eyes. "My
father is at present in his study--engaged, I believe, with Monsieur
Miste."

"Miste?" I echoed, for the name was no less peculiar than her way of
pronouncing it. She seemed to look for some sign that I knew this man.

"Yes--your predecessor."

"Ah! a secretary--a man-machine that writes."

She shook her head with a happy laugh, sinking, as it were, into an
air of interest, which gave a sharp feeling that I had perhaps been
forestalled in other matters by the man called Miste. She looked at
me with such candid eyes, however, that the thought seemed almost a
sacrilege, offered gratuitously to innocence and trustfulness. Her
face was, indeed, a guarantee that if her maiden fancy had been
touched, her heart was at all events free from that deeper feeling
which assuredly leaves its mark upon all who suffer it.

The name of Monsieur de Clericy's former secretary in some way grated
on my hearing, so that instead of retiring from the presence of
mademoiselle as my manners bade me do, I lingered, seeking opportunity
to continue the conversation.

"I do not wish to intrude on Monsieur de Clericy," I said. "It is
perhaps inexpedient that the new machine should be seen of the old."

Mademoiselle laughed, and again I caught the deep silver note of
sympathy in her voice that was so new and yet familiar. In laughter
the soul surely speaks.

"The word scarcely describes Monsieur Miste," retorted she.

"Does any single word describe him?"

For a moment she reflected. She was without self-consciousness, and
spoke with me, a stranger, as easily as she talked to her father.

"A single word?" she echoed. "Yes--a chimera."

At this moment the sound of voices in the corridor made further delay
impossible.

"Perhaps Mademoiselle will allow me to ring for the servant to conduct
me to Monsieur de Clericy's study," I said.

"I will show you the room," replied she; "its door is never closed to
me. I hear voices, which probably betoken the departure of Monsieur
Miste."

The sound, indeed, came distinctly enough to our ears, but it was of
one voice only, the benevolent tones of the Vicomte de Clericy,
followed by his pleasant laugh. If Miste made reply, the words must
have been uttered softly, for I heard them not. I opened the door, and
mademoiselle led the way.

A man was descending the broad staircase which I had lately mounted--a
slim man, who stepped gently. He did n