"You remember," he repeated. "Pray forgive me, if the allusion is agitating. We little thought then what had happened; however, we won't talk about _that_ any more. What I want to do is this: you have the gold setting of the bracelet and the blue stones, sapphires, turquoises: what do you call them? I want to replace the diamonds. I can do so by adding a little of my uncle's gift to my own money, and, when you return to England, I shall get the gold and things from you. I can easily procure the Palais Royal bracelet--Ellen will get it for me--and have the other restored exactly. If my mother is ever well enough to be told about it--and there is every probability that she will be, thank God--I think she will be glad I should have done this." "No doubt," said Harriet, in a low voice. She did not start when he spoke of the strange task they had executed in concert on that memorable night, and no outward sign told how her flesh crept. "No doubt. But you will not have the bracelet made in England?" "No," said George; "I shall have it made in Paris. I will arrange about it when my uncle and I are passing through." "When does Mr. Felton go to England?" "As soon as he gets his letters from New York, if his son does not turn up in the mean time. I hope he may do so. When do you think of returning?" "I don't know," said Harriet, moodily. "If it depended on me, to-morrow. I hate this place." Energy was common to Harriet's mode of speech, but vehemence was not; and the vehemence with which she spoke these words caused George to look at her with surprise. A dark frown was on her face--a frown which she relaxed with a visible effort when she perceived that he was looking at her. "By the by," she said, rising and going to a table in a corner of the room, "you need not wait for my return to have the bracelet made. My desk always travels with me. The little packet is in it. I have never looked at or disturbed it. You had better take it to Paris with you, and give your directions with it in your hand. There will be no occasion, I should think, to let the jeweller see the other." She opened the desk as she spoke, and took, from a secret drawer a small packet, folded in a sheet of letter-paper, and sealed. George Dallas's name was written upon it. It was that which she had put away in his presence so many months before (or years, was it, or centuries?). He took it from her, put it into his pocket, unopened, and took leave of her. "You won't venture out this evening, Mrs. Routh, I suppose?" said George, turning again to her when he had reached the door.