When about to leave Eagles' Nest; things and servants being at that time at sixes-and-sevens there; the kitchen-maid, one Jane--or, as mademoiselle wrote it, Jeanne--a good-natured girl, had offered to assist her to pack up. She had shown Jeanne her books piled ready in the small study, and Jeanne had packed them together in several parcels: for mademoiselle's stock of books was extensive. After leaving Mrs. Raynor's, Mademoiselle Delrue had gone into a family who spent a large portion of their time in travelling on the Continent and elsewhere: much luggage could not be allowed to mademoiselle, consequently her parcels of books had remained unpacked from that time to this. She had now settled down with the family in Herefordshire, had her parcels forwarded to her, and unpacked them. To her consternation, her grief, her horror--mademoiselle dashed all three of the words--in one of these parcels she discovered not books, but the black desk, one that she well remembered as belonging to Major Raynor: that stupid Jeanne must have taken it to be hers, and committed the error of putting it up. Mademoiselle finished by asking whether she could be forgiven: if one slight element of consolation could peep out upon her, she observed, it was to find that the desk was empty. She had lost not an instant in sending it back to Eagles' Nest, and she begged the resident gentleman there (whose name, she had the pain of confessing, had quite escaped her memory) to be so kind as to forward it, together with this note of contrition and explanation, to Mrs. Raynor--whose present residence she was not acquainted with. And she had the honour to salute him with respectful cordiality. "Don't go away, Thomas," said his master. "I want you to stay while I search the private compartment of this desk: I fancy those missing papers may be in it. Let me see? Yes, this is the way--and here's the spring." With one touch, the false bottom was lifted out. Beneath, quietly lay the lost bonds; also a copy of Mrs. Atkinson's last will--the one made in favour of George Atkinson, and a few words written by her to himself. "You see them, Thomas? See that I have found them here?" "Indeed I do, sir." "That's all, then. People are fond of saying that truth is stranger than fiction," said Mr. Atkinson to himself with a smile, as the man withdrew. He examined the bonds; ascertained, to his astonishment, that the money they related to had been invested in his name, and in one single profitable undertaking. And it appeared that Mrs. Atkinson had given directions that the yearly interest, arising, should remain and be added to the principal, until such time as he, George Atkinson, should come forward to claim the whole. "Little wonder we could not find the money," thought he. "And now--what is to be done with it?" And taking only a few minutes for consideration, he addressed the letter spoken of in the foregoing chapter, to Frank Raynor. Which brought the latter down in person.