What it cost me to preserve the outward appearance of composure as I handed back the letter, I am ashamed to tell. I spoke to him with some bitterness. "Your wishes are gratified," I said; "I don't wonder that you are eager to leave your place." He reined back his horse and repeated my words. "Eager to leave my place? I am heart-broken at leaving it." I was reckless enough to ask why. His head sank. "I daren't tell you," he said. I went on from one imprudence to another. "What are you afraid of?" I asked. He suddenly looked up at me. His eyes answered: _"You."_ Is it possible to fathom the folly of a woman in love? Can any sensible person imagine the enormous importance which the veriest trifles assume in her poor little mind? I was perfectly satisfied--even perfectly happy, after that one look. I rode on briskly for a minute or two--then the forgotten scene at the stable recurred to my memory. I resumed a foot-pace and beckoned to him to speak to me. "Lady Claudia's bookseller lives in the City, doesn't he?" I began. "Yes, miss." "Did you walk both ways?" "Yes." "You must have felt tired when you got back?" "I hardly remember what I felt when I got back--I was met by a surprise." "May I ask what it was?" "Certainly, miss. Do you remember a black bag of mine?" "Perfectly." "When I returned from the City I found the bag open; and the things I kept in it--the shawl, the linen, and the letter--" "Gone?" "Gone." My heart gave one great leap in me, and broke into vehement throbbings, which made it impossible for me to say a word more. I reined up my horse, and fixed my eyes on Michael. He was startled; he asked if I felt faint. I could only sign to him that I was waiting to hear more. "My own belief," he proceeded, "is that some person burned the things in my absence, and opened the window to prevent any suspicion being excited by the smell. I am certain I shut the window before I left my room. When I closed it on my return, the fresh air had not entirely removed the smell of burning; and, what is more, I found a heap of ashes in the grate. As to the person who has done me this injury, and why it has been done, those are mysteries beyond my fathoming--I beg your pardon, miss--I am sure you are not well. Might I advise you to return to the house?" I accepted his advice and turned back.