"You're pretending to tell me about my father, and--and you keep trying to tell me about other things instead." "The only tie which bound me to your father, the only reason he had for placing his confidence in me, was his knowledge of my love for you." "Very well; if you like we'll take that for granted----" "I don't like." "Tell me what was in the note!" "'Dear Robert, referring to our conversation of' such and such a date; at this moment I can't give it you exactly----" "It doesn't matter." "'You will find in envelope enclosed herewith the instructions of which I spoke. It is understood that it is only to be opened in the event of my demise; and that, should I for any reason whatever desire its return, you will at once hand it me intact. In acknowledging kindly state that you understand.--Faithfully yours, DONALD LINDSAY.' That was the note. With it was a sealed envelope, inscribed, 'To ROBERT SPENCER. Not to be opened until after my death.--DONALD LINDSAY.'" "And have you opened it?" "That's the gist and point of the whole affair--I haven't it." "I don't understand; I thought you said----" "I did say. What's that?" Mr. Spencer's question referred to a sound like the rustling of bushes. "It's only a rabbit, or a hare." "It must be a large specimen of either animal, and an awkward one, to make a noise like that." "What were you going to say?" "I placed the sealed envelope in my suit-case, together with my other most valuable possessions; which, with the exception of some of your dear letters, were worth about twopence; at the moment I'd nowhere else to put it. When I left, the suitcase was placed, with my other luggage, on the train, and, I presumed, transferred from the train to the boat; yet, when I went down to my cabin, after the boat was fairly off, the suit-case wasn't there." "What had become of it?" "That's the problem which I have still to solve, and which I'm going to solve. Either it was left behind at my aunt's, which she denies, or it was left on the train, which the railway company denies, or it was taken by mistake to somebody else's cabin, which every one denies, or it was stolen, of which I haven't the faintest proof. Anyhow, it was, and, at present, it isn't; as yet that's as far as I've got." "Then my father's letter to you is lost." "But it's not going to continue lost; I have lost things before, but I'm not going to lose the only thing I ever had worth losing; I've a ridiculous sort of fatalistic feeling that, as matters have chanced, if I lose that letter--really, and truly, and finally lose it--I may lose you; you don't suppose I'm going to sit down quietly and endure that loss with equanimity? You don't know me, my lady, if you do. What is that? Don't tell me that that's either a rabbit or a hare." "Perhaps it's a fox."