“Don’t!” said Mrs. Ryves, with much expression. She looked grave again. “It’s rather tantalising—it’s a bit of a problem,” Baron went on, turning his packet over. Mrs. Ryves hesitated. “Will you show me what you have in your hand?” He gave her the packet, and she looked at it and held it for an instant to her nose. “It has a queer, charming old fragrance,” he said. “Charming? It’s horrid.” She handed him back the packet, saying again more emphatically “Don’t!” “Don’t break a seal?” “Don’t give back the papers.” “Is it honest to keep them?” “Certainly. They’re yours as much as the people’s of the shop. They were in the hidden chamber when the table came to the shop, and the people had every opportunity to find them out. They didn’t—therefore let them take the consequences.” Peter Baron reflected, diverted by her intensity. She was pale, with eyes almost ardent. “The table had been in the place for years.” “That proves the things haven’t been missed.” “Let me show you how they were concealed,” he rejoined; and he exhibited the ingenious recess and the working of the curious spring. She was greatly interested, she grew excited and became familiar; she appealed to him again not to do anything so foolish as to give up the papers, the rest of which, in their little blank, impenetrable covers, he placed in a row before her. “They might be traced—their history, their ownership,” he argued; to which she replied that this was exactly why he ought to be quiet. He declared that women had not the smallest sense of honour, and she retorted that at any rate they have other perceptions more delicate than those of men. He admitted that the papers might be rubbish, and she conceded that nothing was more probable; yet when he offered to settle the point off-hand she caught him by the wrist, acknowledging that, absurd as it was, she was nervous. Finally she put the whole thing on the ground of his just doing her a favour. She asked him to retain the papers, to be silent about them, simply because it would please her. That would be reason enough. Baron’s acquaintance, his agreeable relations with her, advanced many steps in the treatment of this question; an element of friendly candour made its way into their discussion of it. “I can’t make out why it matters to you, one way or the other, nor why you should think it worth talking about,” the young man reasoned. “Neither can I. It’s just a whim.” “Certainly, if it will give you any pleasure, I’ll say nothing at the shop.” “That’s charming of you, and I’m very grateful. I see now that this was why the spirit moved me to come up—to save them,” Mrs. Ryves went on. She added, moving away, that now she had saved them she must really go. “To save them for what, if I mayn’t break the seals?” Baron asked. “I don’t know—for a generous sacrifice.” “Why should it be generous? What’s at stake?” Peter demanded, leaning against the doorpost as she stood on the landing.