Mr. Monk puzzled me, as I did not understand why he should refuse to see me on his--so to speak--business premises, seeing he desired to speak with me on a business matter. However, all his froth and small talk were driven out of my head by my discovery that the glass eye had disappeared from the small table. I suppose Gertrude had put it into her pocket, as she was in the room arranging some flowers in a vase. I glanced at her keenly, but she appeared to be perfectly cool. "Where is your aunt?" asked Monk, looking around. "She has gone home again: she only came to see if she could get Joseph to attend to her place," said Gertrude, busy with her flowers, "good-morning, Mr. Vance." "Good-morning," I answered looking hard at her--so hard that she blushed becomingly, but certainly not guiltily. "What is the matter?" she asked, putting her hand to her head, "is my hair out of order?" "No--o--o--o," I said hesitatingly, for her coolness amazed me. "I was only delighted to see you looking so well." She blushed again. "Thank you," was her laughing reply, "for that compliment you shall have a flower," and she actually handed me a late rosebud. I placed it in my button-hole, feeling quite bewildered. It was impossible that she could be guilty, and yet the eye had certainly been on the table, and perhaps had found a place in her pocket. Meanwhile Mr. Monk was fuming with injured egotism at being left out of the conversation. "Attend to me, Gertrude, if you please," he said sharply. "I wish you would tell your aunt that I disapprove of her trying to get Joseph to attend to her garden. She will not pay him, and the man can't work for nothing." "Oh, I think he can," said Miss Monk, putting the vase of now-arranged flowers on the mantelpiece. "Mrs. Caldershaw left him quite a fortune for a man in his station of life. But why don't you speak to my aunt yourself." "No! no! no! She upsets my nerves. We always quarrel." "Exactly what happens when I speak to her" rejoined Gertrude with a shrug; "so I am never pleased when she comes here. It's your fault, papa; when you are away she never calls. I really think she must be in love with you, dear. You had better take care, papa. Since the Deceased Wife's Sister's Bill is law now, aunty may wish to marry you." Monk laughed, and smiled, not ill-pleased by this tribute to his looks. "I shall chose a younger wife than your aunt, my dear. The stepmother I may give you will be young and charming." His daughter looked at him in dismay. "Papa, are you thinking of marrying again?" she demanded quickly. "No, my love. I am too poor to marry; but if I met a rich woman, well----" he stopped, pulled up his collar, glanced in a near mirror and adjusted his tie, apparently thinking he was worthy to be wooed by an heiress. Gertrude laughed, more at ease in her mind. "It would be foolish to marry at your age, papa. You have a comfortable house and a good income, so why not enjoy yourself as you are doing now."