must have happened, for never
had I seen her in such a state of suppressed excitement, and I had seen
her many times, both here and in her aunt's house when I was visiting
Dorothy. Her eyes were shining, not with a brilliant, but a soft light,
and the smile with which she met my advance had something in it
strangely tremulous and expectant.

"I am glad to have a moment in which to speak to you alone," I said. "As
Sinclair's oldest and closest friend, I wish to tell you how truly you
can rely both on his affection and esteem. He has an infinitely good
heart."

She did not answer as brightly and as quickly as I expected. Something
seemed to choke her--something which she finally mastered, though only
by an effort which left her pale, but self-contained, and even more
lovely, if that is possible, than before.

"Thank you," she then said, "my prospects are very happy. No one but
myself knows how happy."

And she smiled again, but with an expression which recalled to my mind
Sinclair's fears.

I bowed. Some one was calling her name; evidently our interview was to
be short.

"I am obliged," she murmured. Then quickly: "I have not seen the moon
to-night. Is it beautiful? Can you see it from this veranda?"

But before I could answer she was surrounded and dragged off by a knot
of young people, and I was left free to keep my engagement with
Sinclair.

I did not find him at his post, nor could any one tell where he had
vanished.

It was plain that his conduct was looked upon as strange, and I felt
some anxiety lest it should appear more so before the evening was over.
I found him at last in his room, sitting with his head buried in his
arms. He started up as I entered.

"Well?" he asked sharply.

"I have learned nothing decisive."

"Nor I."

"I exchanged some words with both ladies and I tackled Beaton; but the
matter remains just about where it was. It may have been Dorothy who
took the box and it may have been Gilbertine. But there seems to be
greater reason for suspecting Dorothy. She lives a terrible life with
that aunt."

"And Gilbertine is on the point of escaping that bondage. I know; I have
thought of that. Walter, you are a generous fellow;" and for a moment
Sinclair looked relieved. Before I could speak, however, he was sunk
again in his old despondency. "But the doubt," he cried--"the doubt! How
can I go through this rehearsal with such a doubt in my mind? I cannot
and will not. Go, tell them I am