Bruce Deville was there, sitting in a low chair. To my surprise he was wearing evening dress, and he had a book in his hand, from which he appeared to have been reading aloud. At my entrance he rose to his feet at once with a little exclamation of surprise. Adelaide Fortress, whose back had been turned to the door, turned sharply round. She too rose to her feet. A swift look passed between them, which did not escape me. “Miss Ffolliot!” she exclaimed. “Why, is anything the matter?” The little maid had retreated, and closed the door. I advanced a few steps further into the room. Somehow I became dimly conscious that their attitude towards me, or my mission, if they had surmised its purport, was in a certain sense hostile. I looked into the woman’s eyes, and I was perplexed. Something had come between us. Perhaps it was my father’s stern words to her, perhaps it was some shadow from those former days concerning which they certainly had some common knowledge. But from whatever cause it arose there was certainly a change. The frank sympathy which seemed to have sprung up between us on that delightful afternoon was altogether a thing of the past, almost as though it had never been. She faced me coldly, with indrawn lips and unfriendly face. I was confused and perplexed; yet even in that same moment a thought flashed in upon me. She was wearing a mask. For some reason or other she was putting away her friendliness. Surely it was the memory of my father’s words. “It was Mr. Deville I wanted to see,” I said. “I saw him cross the park on his way here, so I followed. I am in trouble. I wanted to ask him a question.” He stood leaning against the broad mantelpiece, his brows contracted, his face cold and forbidding. “I am afraid that I cannot help you, Miss Ffolliot,” he said. “I cannot conceive any way in which I could be of service to you, I am afraid.” “You can help me if you will, by answering a single question,” I interrupted. “You dropped a letter from your pocket on Wednesday morning, and I returned it to you. Tell me whose handwriting it was!” There was a little crash upon the floor, and the sound of a half-uttered exclamation. Adelaide Fortress had dropped a small china ornament with which she had been playing. She did not even glance towards the pieces at her feet. She was bending slightly towards me, her lips half parted, her cheeks pale. Her appearance fascinated me; I forgot Mr. Deville altogether until the sound of his clear, deep voice broke the silence. “I had several letters in my pocket, Miss Ffolliot,” he said, slowly. “I am not sure that I remember which one it was that you were good enough to restore to me. In any case, how are you interested in the writer of any of them? What has it to do with your present trouble--whatever that may be?”