My letter was not on the desk, so I opened the top drawer. It seemed to be full of bills, and so was the one below it. I had just started on the third drawer, when a terrible thing happened. "Hello!" said some one behind me. I turned my head slowly, and my heart stopped. THE PORTERES INTO THE PASSAGE HAD OPENED, AND A GENTLEMAN IN HIS EVENING CLOTHES WAS STANDING THERE. "Just sit still, please," he said, in a perfectly cold voice. And he turned and locked the door into the hall. I was absolutely unable to speak. I tried once, but my tongue hit the roof of my mouth like the clapper of a bell. "Now," he said, when he had turned around. "I wish you would tell me some good reason why I should not hand you over to the police." "Oh, please don't!" I said. "That's eloquent. But not a reason. I'll sit down and give you a little time. I take it, you did not expect to find me here." "I'm in the wrong apartment. That's all," I said. "Maybe you'll think that's an excuse and not a reason. I can't help it if you do." "Well," he said, "that explains some things. It's pretty well known, I fancy, that I have little worth stealing, except my good name." "I was not stealing," I replied in a sulky manner. "I beg your pardon," he said. "It IS an ugly word. We will strike it from the record. Would you mind telling me whose apartment you intended to--er--investigate? If this is the wrong one, you know." "I was looking for a letter." "Letters, letters!" he said. "When will you women learn not to write letters. Although"--he looked at me closely--"you look rather young for that sort of thing." He sighed. "It's born in you, I daresay," he said. Well, for all his patronizing ways, he was not very old himself. "Of course," he said, "if you are telling the truth--and it sounds fishy, I must say--it's hardly a police matter, is it? It's rather one for diplomacy. But can you prove what you say?" "My word should be sufficient," I replied stiffly. "How do I know that YOU belong here?" "Well, you don't, as a matter of fact. Suppose you take my word for that, and I agree to believe what you say about the wrong apartment, Even then it's rather unusual. I find a pale and determined looking young lady going through my desk in a business-like manner. She says she has come for a letter. Now the question is, is there a letter? If so, what letter?" "It is a love letter," I said. "Don't blush over such a confession," he said. "If it is true, be proud of it. Love is a wonderful thing. Never be ashamed of being in love, my child." "I am not in love," I cried with bitter fury. "Ah! Then it is not YOUR letter!" "I wrote it." "But to simulate a passion that does not exist--that is sacrilege. It is----" "Oh, stop talking," I cried, in a hunted tone. "I can't bear it. If you are going to arrest me, get it over."