Captain White's fears on her account were at once put to rest, and he resumed his scrutiny of his surroundings. This was Miss Gastonguay's room. That was her bed. Close beside it was the table against which the burglar's efforts had been directed. If then its contents were valuable, why was the upper drawer open, the key falling from it? He took the liberty of gently detaching the newspaper cutting from Chelda's clasped fingers. "Gentleman George"--Oh, here was the solution of the mystery. Chelda had been electrified. She had to-day, strange to say, made the same discovery that he had, but she had made hers by dishonest means. She had taken advantage of her aunt's absence to rummage the hiding-place in which, with a woman's tenderness, were kept some remembrances of the disgraced brother. Unfortunate aunt! Unfortunate girl! She was recovering. He would be able to question her; but first he must get rid of this lout of a woman, and, turning abruptly, he said, "Have you got any pickled quinces in the house?" "I dunno," she said, stolidly. "Go and see. It's the best thing for faint spells. There is a peculiar juice in the quince that puts life into the patient." Mrs. Stryper, without the slightest sign of doubt, went obediently to search in closets and storeroom for something that could not be found. "Well," said Captain White, when Chelda at last sat up on the floor, and put her hand to her head, "has the world straightened itself out again?" Without replying to him her gaze went to the open drawer. "We'd better shut that thing's mouth," and, springing up, he restored the piece of newspaper to its place, locked the drawer, and put the key in her hand. Chelda took it, feebly tried to reach a chair, and falling over in the attempt, was assisted by Captain White. "You're as weak as a kitten," he observed. "You've had a great knock-over." All confusion was rapidly clearing from Chelda's mind. She tried to wither him by a glance, but she had not yet got her bodily faculties under control, and the effort ended in a weak facial contortion. "You're in trouble," he said; "is there anything I can do for you?" Chelda found her voice. The exigencies of the case demanded nerve and coolness. "I am not in trouble," she said. "You are," he replied, bluntly, "and I know what it is. I expect you feel pretty well ashamed of yourself, but it's never too late to turn. Give up this sort of business," and he scornfully pointed his thumb over his shoulder. "What do you mean?" "Picking and feeling round other people's property." "Do you dare to insinuate that I have been doing so?" "It looks mighty like it," he said, slightly uplifting his shoulders. "If my aunt chooses to go out and leave an unlocked drawer, you have no right to assail me with base suspicions." "Did your aunt go and leave an unlocked drawer?" "Ask her."