As she read it she held her breath. Her beautiful eyes grew soft and misty, while a lovely flush crept over her fair features. Tenderly, almost reverently, she raised the flimsy paper to her lips. "Not even to Austin," she murmured, in a voice that was half a sob. "Not even to Austin--dear as he is to me--not even to him." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE STORY OF THE PORTRAITS. Austin Wingate was sitting in his office the next morning. The post had been unusually heavy, and he had a busy day in front of him. In view of the pressure of business which he saw was impending, he was about to ring up Sheila to tell her that he would not come to Chesterfield Street to dinner, as had been arranged, but would see her later in the evening. She, however, rang him up first. "I want to see you as soon as you can possibly get away," she told him. "Something very wonderful has happened; I can't tell you over the 'phone. Can you come to lunch--or before, if possible?" No true lover puts his business before his sweetheart. He replied unhesitatingly that he would be with her inside a couple of hours. That would give him time to attend to his most pressing correspondence. The rest, or that portion of it which could not be delegated to his subordinate, must wait till to-morrow. Sheila had changed her mind. Overnight she had resolved not to communicate that wonderful message even to him. Had it not enjoined her to the strictest secrecy? But on calmer reflection other thoughts had prevailed. The sender of that message did not know of the relations between them. Austin was a part of her life, her second self. How could she keep such an important thing from him, from the lover who had encompassed her with such tender devotion through this terrible time? "Dear, kind Austin," she murmured, as she thought of the readiness with which he had acceded to her request. "He never fails me in the slightest thing. No girl could ever have a truer lover." In two hours he would be here, and she could show him the paper on which was written that mysterious message. How should she get through the interval? The minutes seemed as if they would never pass. She was sitting in the cosy library where her father had spent most of his time when at home. What long chats they had enjoyed together in that dear old room. Her eyes filled with tears as she recalled those happy days, which, alas! seemed so far away. She was aroused from her reveries by the entrance of Grant. "The young person who called the other day, and refused to leave her name, is here. Miss," he told her. "She won't give any name now; merely says she would like to see you for a few minutes. I have shown her into the drawing-room." Sheila's face flushed with excitement. Hurriedly she went upstairs to her mysterious visitor. The dark-haired young woman rose at Sheila's entrance. It was easy to see she was terribly nervous.