Rizzio was to arrive that night. Meanwhile, with the papers hidden about her and bright fires burning in all the living-rooms of the house in which they could in a moment be destroyed, Doris thought herself well placed upon the defensive. Cyril’s note had cheered her, and after removing the dust of her journey she went down into the library, where she joined the other members of the house party assembled. Black seemed to be the prevailing color, for, in addition to the weeds of Lady Constance, there was Wilfred Hammersley, Cyril’s uncle, who had lost an only son at La Bassée, and the Heatherington girls, who had lost a brother. “Ugh!” Lady Betty was saying. “I came to Scotland to try and forget, but the war follows me. Dick Byfield a traitor! Who next? Let’s not even speak of it. Come, I’ve ordered the brake, Doris. We’re going out for a spin. You and I and Angeline. Constance of course has a headache, and Jack will be having another for sympathy.” The air outside was life-giving, and when she returned later Doris felt that her brain had been swept clear of its cobwebs of perplexity. She found Wilson standing in her room gazing with a puzzled expression at the tray of her unpacked box, the contents of which were in a state of confusion. “It’s strange, Miss Mather. Someone has been at your things while I was down in the servants’ hall at luncheon.” “You’re sure?” “Yes, Miss Mather, sure. Quite positive, in fact. Those waists were lying flat when I left.” “The window wasn’t open?” asked Doris with a glance around. “Oh, no, Miss.” She looked about and lowered her voice. “It’s somebody inside.” “Curious,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Nothing has been taken? Is the jewel box there?” Together they examined the things and found that nothing was missing. “Say nothing about this, Wilson,” said Doris thoughtfully. “Unless something is taken, I shouldn’t care to disturb Lady Heathcote.” “It can’t be----” Wilson paused, her voice hushed. “The papers are safe, Wilson--as long as I am safe,” replied the girl, and told the maid of her place of concealment. Wilson looked dubious. “I wish you’d give them to me, Miss Mather.” But the girl shook her head--she was thoroughly alive now to the perils which hung about her, here within the very doors of Lady Heathcote’s house, but she had determined that if she could not find it possible to keep the papers until Cyril appeared she would destroy them. She was not frightened, for however clumsy John Rizzio’s agents might be she was in no danger from himself. Whatever the interests which made the possession of the yellow packet so vital, she knew the man well enough to be sure that if there came an issue between them, he would act with her as he had always acted--the part of a gentleman.