How can
she be harmed?"

As he spoke he looked with a swift interrogative glance at Hilda, and
then turned away his eyes.

"True," said Hilda, cautiously and slowly; "she is beyond my reach.
Besides, you will observe that I was speaking of the past. I was
telling what I wished--not what I wish."

"That is precisely what I understood," said Gualtier. "I only asked
so as to know how your wishes now inclined. I am anxious to serve you
in any way."

"So you have said before, and I take you at your word," said Hilda,
calmly. "I have once before reposed confidence in you, and I intend
to do so again."

Gualtier bowed, and murmured some words of grateful acknowledgment.

"My work now," said Hilda, without seeming to notice him, "is one of
investigation. I merely wish to get to the bottom of a secret. It is
to this that I have concluded to invite your assistance."

"You are assured of that already, Miss Krieff," said Gualtier, in a
tone of deep devotion. "Call it investigation, or call it any thing
you choose, if you deign to ask my assistance I will do any thing and
dare any thing."

Hilda laughed harshly.

"In truth," said she, dryly, "this does not require much daring, but
it may cause trouble--it may also take up valuable time. I do not ask
for any risks, but rather for the employment of the most ordinary
qualities. Patience and perseverance will do all that I wish to have
done."

"I am sorry, Miss Krieff, that there is nothing more than this. I
should prefer to go on some enterprise of danger for your sake."

He laid a strong emphasis on these last words, but Hilda did not seem
to notice it. She continued, in a calm tone:

"All this is talking in the dark. I must explain myself instead of
talking round about the subject. To begin, then. Since our last
interview I could find out nothing whatever that tended to throw any
light on that mysterious cipher writing. Why it was written, or why
it should be so carefully preserved, I could not discover. The
General's death seemed to make it useless, and so for a long time I
ceased to think about it. It was only on my last visit to Pomeroy
Court that it came to my mind. That was six or eight months ago.

"On going there Mrs. Molyneux gave herself up to grief, and scarcely
ever spoke a word. She was much by herself, and brooded over her
sorrows. She spent much time in her father's room, and still more
time in solitary walks about the grounds. I was much by myself. Le