"Have I no reason to?" she exclaimed, suddenly bending her eyes upon me, and she paused in expectation of an answer. "But I forgot; you know nothing of my history." I turned away, for I felt the blood rushing to my face. "I would fain hear you tell it me," I managed to stammer out. "Some time I will," she replied quietly, "but not to-day; the time is inopportune. For it is brimful of sorrow, and the telling of it will, I trust, sadden you." The strangeness of the words, and a passionate tension in her voice, filled me with uneasiness, and I wheeled sharply round. "For I take you for my friend," she explained softly, "and so count on your sympathy. Yet, after all, can I count on it?" I protested with some confusion that she could count on far more than my sympathies. "It may be," she replied. "But I believe, Mr. Buckler, the whole story of woman might be written in one phrase. 'Tis the continual mistaking of lath for steel." "And never steel for lath?" I asked. "At times, no doubt," she answered, recovering herself with an easy laugh. "But we only find that error out when the steel cuts us. So either way are we unfortunate. Therefore, I will e'en pursue my inquiries," and she stepped off into the inner room, whither presently I went to join her. "Well, what have you discovered?" I asked. "Nothing," she replied, with a plaintive shake of the head. "You disappoint me sorely, Mr. Buckler. A student from the University of Leyden should line his walls with volumes and folios, and I have found but one book of Latin poems in that room, and not so much as a pamphlet in this." I started. The book of poems could be no other than my copy of Horace, and it contained the plan of Lukstein Castle. I reflected, however, that the plan was a mere diagram of lines, without even a letter to explain it, and with only a cross at the point of ascent. The Countess, moreover, had spoken in all levity; her tone betrayed no hint of an afterthought. A small package fastened with string lay on the table before her, and beside of it a letter in Elmscott's handwriting. She picked up the package. "And what new purchase is this?" she asked, with a smile. "I know nothing of it. It is no purchase, and I gather from the inscription of the letter it comes from my cousin." "I shall open it," said she, "and you must blame my sex for its inquisitiveness." "Madame," I replied, "the inquisitiveness implies an interest in the object of it, and so pays me a compliment." "Tis the sweetest way of condoning a fault that ever I met with," she laughed, and dropped me a sweeping curtsey. I broke the seal of Elmscott's letter while she untied the parcel. "Marston's conversation at the theatre," he wrote, "reminded me of these buckles. They belong of right to you, and since it seems your turn has come to need luck's services, I send them gladly in the hope that they may repeat their office on your behalf."