"Then I am to take it that my companionship on this walk has not been distasteful to you?" I asked anxiously. She inclined her head with dignified air, saying. "Certainly. I feel that this evening I have at least found a friend--a pleasant thought when one is comparatively friendless." "And as your friend--your devoted friend--I ask to be permitted to see you sometimes," I said earnestly, for, lingering at her side, I was very loth to part from her. "If I can ever be of any assistance, command me." "You are very kind," she answered, with a slight tremor in her voice. "I shall remember your words always." Then, putting forth her well-gloved hand, as we stood upon the kerb of the High Street, she added, "It is getting late. We've taken such a long time across the Park that I must drive home;" and she made a gesture to a passing hansom. "Before we part," I said, "I will give you a card, so that should you require any service of me you will know where to write;" and, as we stood beneath the street lamp, I drew out a card and, with a pencil I took from my vest-pocket, scribbled my address. In silence she watched, but just as I had finished she suddenly gripped my hand, uttering a loud cry of amazement. "What's that you have there?" she demanded. "Let me see it!" Next instant--before, indeed, I could be aware of her intention--she had snatched the pencil from my grasp, and was examining it closely beneath the gaslight. "Ah!" she gasped, glaring at me in alarm. "It is--yes, it is his!" The small gold pencil which I had inadvertently used was the one I had taken from the pocket of the dead unknown on that fateful August night. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE ENCHANTMENT OF A FACE. The face of Mabel Anson, my new-found friend and idyll, had in that instant changed. Her countenance was pale as death, while the hand holding the small pencil trembled. "Whence did you obtain this?" she demanded in an awe-stricken tone, which showed plainly that she recognised it. She held her breath in expectancy. What could I reply? To explain the truth was impossible, for I had pledged my honour to Edna to preserve the secret. Besides, I had no wish to horrify her by the strange story of my midnight adventure. Hence a lie arose involuntarily to my lips. "I found it," I stammered. "Found it? Where?" "I found it when groping about during the time I was blind, and I've carried it ever since, wondering whether one day I should discover its owner." "It is extraordinary?" she gasped--"most extraordinary." "You appear to recognise it," I observed, much puzzled at her attitude. "If you can tell me to whom it belongs I will return it." She hesitated, and with a quick effort regained her self-control. "I mean it possesses an extraordinary resemblance to one I have seen many times before--but I suppose there are lots of pencil-cases of the same shape," she added with affected carelessness.