For a space he stood motionless under the tree, staring at the paper, focusing his mind on it, seizing on waifs and strays from the past that surged to the surface of his memory. It dazed him at first. Then he began to understand. The mysterious drama that environed the girl upstairs began to grow clear to him. This was the document that had been stolen from her last night, the loss of which had thrown her into a frenzy of despair--the record of a marriage between her mother and Jake Shackleton. Without stopping to think further he thrust it into his pocket and ran to the house. As he mounted the porch steps the scene of his first meeting with Mariposa flashed suddenly like a magic-lantern picture across his mind. He heard her hysterical cry of--“He was my father!” Another veil of the mystery seemed lifted. And now he shrank from penetrating further, for he began to see. If Mariposa had some sore secret to hide let her keep it shut in her own breast. All he had to do was to give the paper to her as soon as he could. In the moment’s passage of the balcony and the pause while he inserted his latch-key in the door he tried to think how he could restore it to her without letting her think he had read it. The key turned and as the door gave he decided that it must be given her at once without wasting time or bothering about comforting lies. He burst into the hall and then stood still, the door-handle in his hand. In the dim light, the two Garcia ladies and the two boys met his eyes, standing in a group at the foot of the stairs. There was something in their faces and attitudes that bespoke uneasiness and anxiety. Their four pairs of eyes were fastened on him with curious alarmed gravity. He kicked the door shut and said: “How’s Miss Moreau?” The question seemed to increase their disquietude. “We don’t know where she is,” said young Mrs. Garcia. “Isn’t she in her room?” he demanded. “No--that’s what’s so funny. I thought she was sleeping an awful long time and I just peeked in and she isn’t there. And Benito’s been all over the house and can’t find her. It seems so crazy of her to go out in all this rain, but her outside things are not in the closet or anywhere.” They stood silent for a moment, eying one another with faces of disturbed query. The opening of Pierpont’s door roused them. The young man appeared in the aperture and then came slowly forward. “Have you seen Miss Moreau?” he said to young Mrs. Garcia. “No,” said Barron hurriedly; “but have you?” “Yes, she was down in my room this afternoon singing.” “Singing!” echoed the others in wide-eyed amazement. “Yes, and I’m rather anxious about her. That’s why I came out when I heard your voices. She’s had a pretty severe disappointment, I’m afraid. She seems to have lost her voice.” “Lost her voice!” ejaculated Mrs. Garcia in a low gasp of horror. “Good heavens!”