"I,--we is professional. You're inclined to mistrust me, but I swear I'm alone. I'll have no meddling with this job till I'm ready to spring it. I'm planning to trace his exact hang-out through this relative you speak of." "You know who she is?" "Yes, ma'am, though you didn't take the pains to tell me, no offence either. You're not bound to tell all you know. I found out all about her. She's the apple of Gentleman George's eye. Of course he writes to her. We'll strike at him through her. I I've a little scheme for scrutinising her husband's mail, but--" and H. Robinson suddenly folded his lips. This young lady was now out of the combine, and he did not like too well the expression in the depths of her inscrutable eyes. After several efforts he succeeded in rising from his chair, bobbed his head thankfully as she placed some bank-bills in his hand, then sank back again to write a receipt. "Here's your key," he said, suddenly, "I most forgot." Chelda took the small, oddly-shaped piece of metal from him. Ever since childhood she had known that her aunt kept her dearest possessions in the little table at the head of her bed. In the lower drawers were her family jewels. In the upper one were treasures beyond the treasures of gold or precious stones. The contents of this upper drawer had never been shown to Chelda, and she had never had any curiosity to examine them, for she knew pretty well that they were heart souvenirs,--old profile pictures, daguerreotypes, and badly painted miniatures, locks of hair, scraps of satin and velvet from wedding gowns, faded letters, and withered flowers, taken from the hands of the dead. But lately there had been some additions made to this store of treasures,--something that drew her aunt to frequent contemplation and meditation behind closed doors. There had also been a new lock put on the drawers, and Chelda had become possessed of a teasing curiosity to know what this concealed mystery foreboded. She was continually in fear of a new heir. Her aunt had always treated her as her adopted daughter, yet she had never bound herself by a sure and certain promise to leave all that she possessed to her favourite niece. And now--would the key fit? It was exceedingly peculiar in shape, and if there were any flaw in it the detective must take it back to Boston to have another made. She hastily drew out her watch. The picnickers would probably not be returning for some time yet. "Will you wait for one minute while I try this?" she asked of H. Robinson. "Cert'nly," he responded, and, folding his fat hands behind him, he strolled to the window and gazed out at the blue sky and the bluer river. Chelda assured herself by a glance from the back of the house that there was no one approaching from the direction of the wood, and then going swiftly to her aunt's room, she knelt before the table and fitted the key to the lock in the upper drawer.