"If you touch one of those papers or letters or whatever they may be, you shall be prosecuted for theft," he declared. "I swear it!" Wrayson smiled. "I will run the risk," he declared. "Ah! Baroness, this is kind of you," he added, throwing open the door and ushering her in. "There is a young friend of yours here who is dying to renew his acquaintance with you." She smiled delightfully at Sydney Barnes, and threw back her cloak. She had just come in from the opera, and diamonds were flashing from her neck and bosom. Her gown was exquisite, the touch of her fingers an enchantment. It was impossible for him to resist the spell of her presence. "You have been very unkind," she declared. "You have not been to see me for a very long time. I do not think that I shall forgive you. What do you say, Mr. Wrayson? Do you think that he deserves it?" Wrayson smiled as he threw open the door once more. He felt that the next few minutes might prove interesting. CHAPTER XXXVII THE WIDOW'S ULTIMATUM Sydney Barnes stepped quickly forward. If Wrayson had permitted it, he would have snatched the packet from the girl's fingers. Wrayson, however, saw his intent and intervened. He stepped forward and led her to his writing table. "I want you to sit down here quietly and open the envelope," he said, switching on the electric lamp. "That is what he told you to do, isn't it? There may be a message for you inside." She looked round a little fearfully. The presence of the Baroness evidently discomposed her. "I thought," she said, "that we were going to be alone, that there would have been no one here but him and you." "The lady is a friend of mine," Wrayson said, "and it is very likely that she may be interested in the contents of this envelope." She untied the string with trembling fingers. Wrayson handed her a paper-knife and she cut open the top of the envelope. Then she looked up at him appealingly. "I--I don't want to look inside," she half sobbed. Wrayson took up the envelope and shook out its contents before her. There was a letter addressed simply to Agnes, and a small packet wrapped in brown oilcloth and secured with dark-green ribbon. Sydney Barnes' hand stole out, but Wrayson was too quick for him. He changed his position, so as to interpose his person between the packet and any one in the room. "Read the letter," he told the girl. "It is addressed to you." She handed it to him. Her eyes were blinded with tears. "Read it for me, please," she said. He tore open the envelope and read the few lines scrawled upon a half sheet of notepaper. He read them very softly into her ear, but the words were audible enough to all of them.