"Why not ask Madame de Lera to do it?" said Vanderlyn, in a low voice.

He turned away and stared at a sporting print which hung just on the
level of his eyes. Had he ever written imprudent letters to Peggy? Not
lately, but in the early days,--in that brief time of uncertain ecstasy,
and, on his part, of passionate expression, which had preceded their
long successful pretence at friendship? He himself had preserved later
letters of hers--not love-letters assuredly, but letters which proved
clearly enough the strange closeness of their intimacy.

But what was this that Pargeter was saying? "Madame de Lera? Why should
I ask her to interfere? I don't want to mix her up in this business more
than I can help! If it hadn't been for her--and that ridiculous
invitation of hers, Peggy would be here now! Peggy wouldn't mind your
looking over her things, Grid. She's really fond of you--as fond of you
as she can be of anyone, that is."

He got up, and, preceding Vanderlyn down a connecting passage, flung
open the door giving access to a spacious airy bedchamber of which the
pale mauve and grey furnishings reminded both men of Peggy's favourite
flower and scent. The sun-blinds were down and the maid was standing, as
if waiting for them, by the dressing-table.

They both instinctively hesitated on the threshold. "Tom," said
Vanderlyn, hoarsely, "I don't think I ought to come in here----"

"Don't be a fool! I tell you she wouldn't mind a bit. Surely you're not
going to cut--now?"

Pargeter took a step forward; then he stood for a moment looking round
him, evidently perplexed, and ill at ease at finding himself thus
suddenly introduced into his wife's intimate atmosphere.

"I don't believe she kept any letters," he repeated, then glanced
uncertainly at the lady's-maid who stood primly by.

"Mrs. Pargeter kept some letters in that writing-desk over there,
sir,--at least I think she did."

Close to the small tent-bed stood an old-fashioned rosewood davenport, a
relic of Margaret Pargeter's childhood and girlhood, brought from her
distant English home.

The maid waited for a moment, and then added, "The desk is locked, sir."

"Locked? Then did Mrs. Pargeter take her keys with her?"

"I suppose she did, sir."

"Then it's no use," said Pargeter, with a certain relief, "I don't want
to force the thing open."

Vanderlyn looked across, coldly and steadily, at the woman. Her
expression struck him as oddly enigmatical; meeting h