"I had to have a new key made for it," he said, letting the front fall forward on his careful hand. "Look, Anne! how beautifully the drawers are inlaid." He pulled out one or two of them. Janet slowly put out her hand, and pulled out the lowest drawer on the left-hand side. It stuck, and then came out. It was empty like all the rest. Stephen closed it, and then drew it forward again. "Why does it stick?" he said. He got the drawer entirely out, and looked into the aperture. Then he put in his hand, and pulled out something wedged against the slip of wood which supported the upper drawer, without reaching quite to the back of the cabinet. It was a crumpled, dirty sheet of paper. He tore it as he forced it out. "It must have been in the lowest drawer but one," he said, "and fallen between the drawer and its support." Janet was the first to see her brother's signature, and she pointed to it with a cry. It was the missing I O U. "I always said it would turn up," said Stephen gently. "But it's too late," said Janet hoarsely, "too late! too late! Oh! why didn't George believe in me!" "He will believe now." "It doesn't matter what he believes now. Why didn't he _know_ I had not burnt it?" "I believed in you," said De Rivaz, his voice shaking. "I knew you had not burnt it, though I saw you burning papers. Though I saw you with my own eyes, I did not believe." There was a moment's pause. Her three faithful friends looked at Janet. "I burnt nothing," she said. * * * * * Janet married De Rivaz at last, but not until she had nearly worn him out. It was after their marriage that he painted his marvellous portrait of her, a picture that was the outcome of a deep love, wed with genius. She made him a good wife, as wives go, and bore him beautiful children, but she never cared for him as she had done for George. Later on her daughters carried their love affairs, not to their mother, but--to Anne. * * * * * GEOFFREY'S WIFE "Oh, how this spring of love resembleth Th' uncertain glory of an April day." Every one felt an interest in them. The mob-capped servants hung over the banisters to watch them go downstairs. Alphonse reserved for them the little round table in the window, which commanded the best view of the court, with its dusty flower-pots grouped round an intermittent squirt of water. Even the landlord, Monsieur Leroux, found himself often in the gateway when they passed in or out, in order to bow and receive a merry word and glance.