“Wait a minute, Dawtie. I will speak to you presently,” said her mistress. George rose. He had laid the watch on the table, and seemed to have forgotten it. “Please take the watch with you,” said Alexa. “Certainly, if you wish it!” he answered. “And my father's keys, too,” she added. “Will you not be kind enough to take charge of them?” “I would rather not be accountable for anything under them. No; you must take the keys.” “I can not help regretting,” said George, “that your honored father should have thought fit to lay this burden of possession upon me.” Alexa made no answer. “I comforted myself with the hope that you would feel them as much your own as ever!” he resumed, in a tone of disappointment and dejection. “I did not know of their existence before I knew they were never to be mine.” “Never, Alexa?” “Never.” George walked to the door, but there turned, and said: “By the way, you know that cup your father was so fond of?” “No.” “Not that gold cup, set with stones?” “I saw something in his hands once, in bed, that might have been a cup.” “It is a thing of great value--of pure gold, and every stone in it a gem.” “Indeed!” returned Alexa, with marked indifference. “Yes; it was the work of the famous Benvenuto Cellini, made for Pope Clement the Seventh, for his own communion-chalice. Your father priced it at three thousand pounds. In his last moments, when his mind was wandering, he fancied it the Holy Grail He had it in the bed with him when he died; that I know.” “And it is missing?” “Perhaps Dawtie could tell us what has become of it. She was with the laird at the last.” Dawtie, who had stood aside to let him pass to the open door, looked up with a flash in her eyes, but said nothing. “Have you seen the cup, Dawtie?” asked her mistress. “No, ma'am.” “Do you know it?” “Very well, ma'am.” “Then you don't know what has become of it?” “No, ma'am; I know nothing about it.” “Take care, Dawtie,” said George. “This is a matter that will have to be searched into.” “When did you last see it, Dawtie?” inquired Alexa. “The very day my master died, ma'am. He was looking at it, but when he saw I saw him he took it inside the bed-clothes.” “And you have not seen it since?” “No, ma'am.” “And you do not know where it is?” said George. “No, sir. How should I?” “You never touched it?” “I can not say that, sir; I brought it him from his closet; he sent me for it.” “What do you think may have become of it?” “I don't know, sir.” “Would you allow me to make a thorough search in the place where it was last seen?” asked George, turning to his cousin. “By all means. Dawtie, go and help Mr. Crawford to look.” “Please, ma'am, it can't be there. We've had the carpet up, and the floor scrubbed. There's not a hole or a corner we haven't been into--and that yesterday.” “We must find it,” said George. “It must be in the house.” “It must, sir,” said Dawtie. But George more than doubted it