I might have known I should not escape his sharp eyes and ears. I went back slowly, murmuring, “Yes, Mr. Rayner,” and blushing with mortification. It was only a trifle, after all, but it was a most vexatious one. To Mr. Rayner, to whom I could not explain that I was too much occupied in listening to a strictly private _tête-à-tête_ to think of his book, it must seem a most reprehensible piece of carelessness on the part of a responsible member of his household; it would serve me right if he requested me not to touch any of his books in future. He was turning over the leaves with his eyes bent on the book as I came up; but I have since thought that he took a mischievous pleasure in my discomfiture. “I am very sorry, Mr. Rayner,” I began, in a low voice which almost threatened tears; “I brought that book out here to read yesterday evening, and I--I forgot to take it with me when I went in. I know it was most inexcusable carelessness--indeed I will never bring one of the library-books out again.” “And why not, Miss Christie?” said he, suddenly dispelling my anxiety by looking up with his usual kindly smile. “I am sure Guizot is dry enough to stand a little moisture, and, if you were to throw him into the pond, you would be his only mourner, for nobody takes him off his shelf but you. But what makes you spoil your young eyes by plodding through such heavy stuff as this? It is very laudable of you, I know; but, if you were to bring out a volume of poetry or a novel, that would run no risk of being forgotten.” “I am so ignorant,” said I humbly, “and I want some day to be able to teach girls much older than Haidee, so that I have to read to improve myself. And I don’t read only dry things. This morning I found time to read nearly the whole of yesterday’s paper.” “Well, that was dry enough; there was nothing in it, was there?” “Yes, there was an account of another murder in Ireland, and a long article on the present position of the Eastern difficulty, and the latest details about that big burglary.” “What burglary?” “Haven’t you read about it? A large house in Derbyshire, belonging to Lord Dalston, was broken into last Wednesday, and a quantity of valuable things stolen. They say they’ve got a clue, but they haven’t been able to find any of the thieves yet.” “And they won’t either. They never do, except by a fluke.” “They say that the robbery must have been most carefully planned, and that it was most skilfully carried out.” “They always say that. That is to excuse the utter incompetency of the police in face of a little daring and dexterity.” “And they say that it looks like the work of the same hand that committed several large jewel robberies some years ago.” “Whose hand was that?” “Ah, they don’t know! The man was never discovered.”