“It is an incomparable sapphire,” he said--“in a fine state always one of the most precious of precious stones. This example may be pronounced, in bulk and depth of colour, no less than superlative.” As he spoke, his man entered the room. “What is it, David?” he exclaimed. “A lady to see you, sir.” “What name, man? Why don’t you show her in?” “Hearing you had visitors, sir, she begged if you would come to her instead.” He proffered a card. “It is Mrs Barclay Rivers herself,” said Gilead, turning gleefully to his guests. “I had half-expected her. Excuse me a moment.” As he left the room, Miss Halifax, with a heart-felt sigh, turned to the secretary. “Damn!” said that young gentleman laconically. “I’m convinced she’s young and beautiful and romantic,” murmured the amanuensis unhappily. “Did you notice how shyly he referred to their confidences? A designing creature! Visitors, indeed! I’ve a presentiment we’re going to have our poor little noses put out of joint, Herbert.” “Hush!” he whispered. Voices were audible in the passage, and the next moment Gilead laughingly re-entered the room, ushering in his visitor. Miss Halifax rose with a frigid demeanour and a cold feeling at her heart--and encountered the figure of a buxom red-faced woman of sixty, waddling in like a jovial duck. “Well, I’m blessed!” said Mrs Barclay Rivers, “if this ain’t like a scene out of Dickens, and the conspirators all met together in old Joe’s rag shop! What a pretty frock, my dear!” Miss Halifax, with a delicious laugh, ran to take the hand offered. CHAPTER VII. THE QUEST OF THE WAX HAND