ness of more importance to him than
life itself would be." He was talking against time, she saw--talking
while he inspected her to see whether she were willfully lying or
believed what she said. He was a man who by rule believed the worst: the
disagreeable, incredulous smile came back. "These are the days when
ghosts walk, as you know." After a moment's pause: "And Hugh may come
to rap and write with the rest. So, even admitting that he is dead, it
would be safer for you to receive the message. It matters much to him."

"What is it?" she said curiously. "There is no use in wasting so many
words about the matter."

"Tell him--" lowering his voice. "No," with a sudden suspicious glance
at her. "No need of wasting words, true enough. Give him this. There's
an address inside. Tell him the person who sent it waits for him there."
He took out of his pocket a small morocco case, apparently containing a
photograph, and laid it down on the table.

"Take it back. Hugh Guinness has been dead for years. I will not take
charge of it."

"No, he's not dead," coolly buttoning his coat again. "I suppose you
believe what you say. But he was in Delaware, I tell you, last October.
If he asks about me, tell him I only acted as a messenger in the matter.
I've no objection to doing him that good turn."

He nodded familiarly, put on his hat, and went out as suddenly as he had
come. When he was gone she heard the rain drenching the walnuts outside,
dripping, dripping; the thunder rolled down the valley; the fire
crackled and flashed. There, on the table, in the dirty morocco case,
lay a Mystery, a tremendous Life-secret, no doubt, of which she, Kitty,
held the clue. It was like Pepita when she found the little gold key
that unlocked the enchanted rooms. Hugh Guinness living? To be restored
to his father? She was in a fever of delight and excitement. When she
opened the case she found a beautiful woman's face--a blonde who seemed
sixteen to Kitty, but who might be sixty. The Mystery enlarged: it quite
filled Kitty's horizon. When she put the case in her pocket, and sat
down, with red cheeks and bright eyes, on the rug again, I am sure she
did not remember there was a Reform school or a Muller in the world.

At last Peter was heard in the porch, stamping and shaking: "Oh, I'm
dry as a toast, Jane, what with the oil-skin and leggings. Yes, take
them. Miss Vogdes wants tea in the shop, eh? All right! Why child,"
turning up her face, "your che