Then he went forward a few steps, and as he did so his quick eye evidently detected something unexpected, for he made his way definitely towards the back row of stalls, stooping when he came to the last but one, and lifted from the carpet a folded square of paper. He held it up to the light; it was an envelope, pink in hue, and embellished on the smooth satin surface by a tiny coronet and a twisted cypher. It was Dick Darling's rose-coloured _billet-doux_. Vladimir Mellikoff made no movement of surprise or triumph, but as he took out his black note-book and laid the envelope safely within its pages, the smile deepened on his lips and in his eyes. He turned and walked swiftly away, letting the double doors close noiselessly behind him. The little theatre was once more deserted; the wax-lights flickered in the still air; the rose silk draperies stirred slightly as a passing breath of soft spring wind floated in from the rose house, bringing a wave of perfume from the golden blossoms over which it had lingered in its passage. The mimic comedy was played out, the actors had abandoned their rôles; only real life and its human tragedy remained uncompleted, across which none but the Divine hand dare write the word _finis_. CHAPTER XIII. IN THE HAZEL COPSE. Mr. Tremain, after leaving Miss Darling in the safe custody of George Newbold, walked hastily out of the theatre by a side entrance, and making his way along a narrow and dimly lighted corridor, came to a small door opening on to an outside terrace which ran beneath the library windows, and from which a flight of steps led to the large flower garden--Esther Newbold's particular hobby. He stepped out on to the terrace, shutting the door behind him, and drawing a deep breath of relief at being once more alone. It was a charming night; the cool fresh west wind swept by him in fitful gusts, touched with a warmer breath of the south, and laden with all the mystery of the thousands of miles it had travelled ere it reached this fair spot of God's creation. It could not linger to unfold its burden of knowledge; it could but flutter its dark soft wings and pass on in the orbit of its destiny, leaving its mystery unsolved, its secrets unrevealed, and murmuring ever as it went, sweeping up amidst the tall, waving trees, or bending low to caress the sleeping flowers, telling its message always and ever--its message of the passing of Time, of the coming of Eternity. "The stars heard it, and the sea, And the answering aisles of the dim woods." Only man, whose ears are not as yet finely enough attuned to the music of the spheres, heard no hidden meaning in its gentle voice, no celestial trumpet-call in its rude blasts.