Wingrave turned away with a little gasp; a half-stifled exclamation had crept out from between his teeth. His cheeks seemed paler than ever, and his eyes unnaturally bright. Nevertheless, he was completely master of himself. On the table was a large deed box of papers, which Rocke had left for his inspection. From its recesses he drew out a smaller box, unlocked it with a key from his chain, and emptied its sole contents--a small packet of letters--upon the table. He counted them one by one. They were all there--and on top a photograph. A breath of half-forgotten perfume stole out into the room. He opened one of the letters, and its few passionate words came back to his memory, linked with a hundred other recollections, the desire of her eyes, of her lips raised for his, the caressing touch of her fingers. He found himself wondering, in an impersonal sort of way, that these things should so little affect him. His blood ran no less coldly, nor did his pulses beat the faster, for this backward glance into things finished. There was a knock at the door. He raised his head. “Come in!” A slim, fair young man obeyed the summons, and advanced into the room. Wingrave eyed him with immovable face. Nevertheless, his manner somehow suggested a displeased surprise. “Sir Wingrave Seton, I believe?” the intruder said cheerfully. “That is my name,” Wingrave admitted; “but my orders below have evidently been disobeyed. I am not disposed to receive visitors today.” The intruder was not in the least abashed. He laid his hat upon the table, and felt in his pocket. “I am very sorry,” he said. “They did try to keep me out, but I told them that my business was urgent. I have been a journalist, you see, and am used to these little maneuvers.” Wingrave looked at him steadily, with close-drawn eyebrows. “Am I to understand,” he said “that you are in here in your journalistic capacity?” The newcomer shook his head. “Pray do not think,” he said, “that I should be guilty of such an impertinence. My name is Aynesworth. Walter Aynesworth. I have a letter for you from Lovell. You remember him, I daresay. Here it is!” He produced it from his breast coat pocket, and handed it over. “Where is Lovell?” Wingrave asked. “He left for the East early this morning,” Aynesworth answered. “He had to go almost at an hour’s notice.” Wingrave broke the seal, and read the letter through. Afterwards he tore it into small pieces and threw them into the grate. “What do you want with me, Mr. Aynesworth?” he asked. “I want to be your secretary,” Aynesworth answered. “My secretary,” Wingrave repeated. “I am much obliged to you, but I am not requiring anyone in that capacity.” “Pardon me,” Aynesworth answered, “but I think you are. You may not have realized it yet, but if you will consider the matter carefully, I think you will agree with me that a secretary, or companion of some sort, is exactly what you do need.”