The opportunity at last! The office would be unguarded; and, walking swiftly in the direction of Van Heldre's, he turned round into the back lane, and, strung up to act firmly and determinedly, he pressed the back gate. It was fast. Desperate and determined now, he went round to the principal office door, but it was locked. Harry drew a long breath, and walked straight to the front door and rang. The maid who opened drew back to let him pass. "My father--sister here?" "In the drawing-room; in with my mistress." "No, no," said Harry hastily, as the maid moved towards the door; "never mind me; I'll go in soon." The woman left him in the hall, and he waited till he heard the kitchen door close, when he walked swiftly and softly to the glass window, and hurried into the office. The inner office door was open, and he darted in, to hastily look all round, under table, chairs, beneath the book-shelves, among the newspapers that lay in places in a heap; but there was no sign of the missing trinket, and an icy feeling of dread began to grow upon him. The waste-paper basket! It was half full, and the locket might easily have dropped in there, but a hasty examination was without avail. The fireplace! He looked there, in the ready-laid fire, beneath the grate, in the fender; he even raised it, but without avail. "It must be here somewhere," he muttered fiercely; and he looked round again, and in amongst the papers on the table. Still without avail. "It is in the waste-paper basket," he said, with a feeling of conviction upon him, as, trembling in every limb, he went to the other side of the table where it stood. "What's that?" A faint sound. Was it Crampton returning? He stood listening, his brow glistening with the cold perspiration; and as he remained breathless and intent, he seemed to see again the office as it was on the previous night, almost totally dark, the safe opened, and the shadowy figure of Van Heldre dashing at him. Was it fancy, or was the place really dark? A curious mist was before his eyes, but all was silent; and he went down on his knees, turned the waste-paper basket upside down--the torn letters, envelopes, and circulars forming a heap on the well-worn Turkey carpet; but no piece of metal fell out with a low pat. "It is here; it is here; it shall be here," he panted; and then he sprang to his feet shivering with shame and dread, face to face with Madelaine Van Heldre, who, pale with emotion, heavy-eyed with weeping, but erect and stern, flashed upon him a look full of anger and contempt. "Ah, Madelaine!" he stammered, "have you seen a half-written letter-- must be here somewhere--left on my desk?" "Henri des Vignes--the soul of honour!" she said bitterly. "Have you fallen so low as this?" "I--I don't understand you." "You coward! And you can lie to me--the woman you professed to love!" "Madelaine, for pity's sake." "Let me tell you what you are looking for." "I--looking for?"