It was a room that had once been her mother’s morning sitting-room, and where she had had all her uncle’s books, pictures, and safe removed after his death, and here she spent much of her time, reading the books he had loved, sewing a little, painting a little, and thinking a great deal of the friend who had been so very dear to her. Mr. Dalton acted as if he felt very much like an intruder or a thief as he glided noiselessly into this room, closing and locking the door after him. He went directly to the safe; taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he selected one and proceeded to unlock it. “Did the foolish little chit think to keep her secrets from me?” he sneered, as he easily turned the lock and the door swung noiselessly back. “She’ll find she will be obliged to use more stratagem than she possesses in her small head before she can outwit an old one like mine,” he continued, as he proceeded to search every drawer the safe contained. None was locked save the private drawer in which he had seen Editha place Earle’s package, and he found nothing of any interest in any of them. Selecting another key from his bunch, he quickly opened the private drawer, and a grunt of satisfaction immediately escaped him, showing that now he had found what he wanted. He took it out, and the light revealed the package which Edith had sought to treasure so sacredly. “There was always something mysterious about that proud scamp,” he muttered, eyeing the package curiously; “and now, if there is anything here to tell me who and what he is, I’m going to know it. He said his business _that night_,” he continued, reflectively, “concerned only his own private interests, and was connected with his early life; perhaps I shall learn something more about those ‘private interests’ and ‘early life.’” He removed the light from the floor where he had put it to see to unlock the safe, to the table, seated himself comfortably in a revolving chair, took out a handsome pocket-knife, and, in the most careful and delicate manner imaginable, removed entire the heavy seal of wax from the package. Putting this in a place of safety that no harm might come to it, he removed the wrapping of heavy paper and began to inspect the contents. They consisted chiefly of letters addressed to Earle, in a delicate, feminine hand, the sight of which made Sumner Dalton start violently and grow a sudden crimson. “Pshaw!” he said, impatiently, and drawing a deep breath, “there are hundreds of women who write a similar hand.” He opened one or two of the letters and read them. They were all dated from a little town in England, and were addressed to “My dear son,” and simply signed “Your loving mother.” There was not much of interest in them to him, only now and then there was an expression which seemed to touch some long dormant chord of memory, and made him shiver as he read. He soon grew weary of this occupation, however, and laid the letters aside to examine further.