The Earl's mysterious visitor had been shown in there by Jenner before being conducted to his lordship's room, and upon the Earl's pedestal writing-table, set in an alcove overlooking the terrace, stood a small, well-worn despatch-box of green enamelled steel, covered with dark green canvas. It had been brought by Darnborough, and stood unlocked and open, just as he had taken from it the written reports of the agents of the Secret Service who had arrived at Charing Cross early that morning from the Continent. Curiosity prompted Jean to pause and peer into it. She wondered what business that rather sour-faced man had with the Earl, and what that portable little steel box could contain. A photograph--the photograph of a young and handsome woman--which was lying face upwards, first attracted her attention. Curious, she thought, that the man towards whom old Jenner had been so deferential should carry about the picture of a pretty woman. She took it in her fingers and held it in the light in order to examine it more closely. Then, in replacing it, she glanced at the file of papers uppermost, a thick bundle of various documents, stamped with the arms of England and the words, "Foreign Office," and upon the outside of which was written in a bold, clerkish hand, "_Re_ Richard Harborne, deceased." Richard Harborne! Sight of that name caused her to hold her breath. She took out the file of papers with trembling hand and bent to examine them in the light. She saw there were newspaper cuttings, and long reports both in writing and typed--reports signed by persons of whom she had no knowledge. In one paper at which she glanced Dick was referred to as "The Honourable Richard Davies Harborne, late of His Britannic Majesty's Secret Service." She read eagerly, hoping to discover something to throw light upon the poor fellow's sad end, but the writing was small, cramped, and difficult for her to decipher. Yet, so deeply interested did she become that she did not hear the door open. Suddenly she heard a footstep behind her, and, starting quickly, turned to find his lordship's mysterious visitor standing facing her with a look of severe inquiry upon his grey, furrowed countenance. "Oh! I--I--I'm so very sorry!" was all she could say, as she quickly replaced the file of papers in the despatch-box. "I--I----" But further words failed her, and she stood abashed, confused, and ashamed. CHAPTER XVII. THE DARKENING HORIZON. "Well, nurse, I hardly expected that," he said, reprovingly, his serious eyes fixed upon hers. Jean turned scarlet, and then admitted, as she stood with her back to the writing table: "I saw the photograph in your despatch-box, and it attracted me. Then I saw those papers." "And they seem to have greatly interested you, nurse--eh?" Darnborough remarked. "A woman is always interested in what does not concern her," she replied with a forced smile.