To her great astonishment, Janet found that these were little pieces of paper, covered with a large indistinct writing, but torn into such small pieces that it was scarcely possible to trace a single word. She gathered up a handful of them hastily, looking round to see if any one was about, with a sense of doing something clandestine, though she could not tell why. And, indeed, she had scarcely taken a dozen steps in the opposite direction when she heard other steps coming round the front of the house, and, looking back, saw Vicars, who seemed to be continually prowling about, and who, after a glance at the papers on the border, looked after her with a suspicious start, and finally followed her into the long walk which ran along one side of the garden. Janet instinctively concealed the bits of paper in her hands, and turned upon him before he overtook her. “Do you want me? Has Mrs. Harwood sent for me?” she said. “I can’t say as she has, miss. Seeing you about, I would just like, if you please, to ask you a question. Have you seen anyone a-picking up pieces of paper about these walks?” “Seen anyone--picking up pieces of papers? No. I have not seen anyone--there has been no one here but myself.” “Ah!” said Vicars, drawing a long breath, and then again he looked at her keenly. “As for yourself, miss--you’ve got sharp eyes--maybe you’ve seen some of them papers blown about the walks.” Janet persuaded herself afterwards that she did not tell a fib by premeditation. She answered, hastily. “I have seen nothing about the walks but fallen leaves--there is no wind to blow anything about.” “That’s true enough,” said Vicars: then he added, “It’s a bit of an old copybook as someone has been tearing up. Missus can’t bear a litter--that’s why I asked you. Beg your pardon, miss; I hope it’s no offence.” “If you mean to me, I am not in the least offended,” said Janet, with her most dignified air, and Vicars, though with another searching look at her, turned away.