The lovely, winning child had wound herself around his heart in the two days when she had been his sole care. He who had saved her life felt himself responsible to her friends for her safe guardianship. Already he had had inserted in several newspapers the story of the finding of the child and her mother’s tragic death. He hoped by this means to find Sweetheart’s friends. But as days went by bringing no news from those to whom the child belonged, he began to feel a sort of relief at the silence, for if any one came to claim her, what was he to do, how answer for her loss? To-night he was restless and ill at ease in spite of the fact that his capricious wife had been all sunshine for a week. Somehow her smiles and gayety seemed heartless, for she showed no anxiety, no sympathy over the loss that weighed so heavily on his conscience. He glanced at her as she stood, the center of an admiring group, tall, stately, queen-like in her rich dress and jewels, and turning away with a heavy sigh, sought the seclusion of the grounds, eager for a few moments of solitude that he might drop the conventional smile that social courtesy demanded. How sweet and cool and silent it was out there in the beautiful moonlight among the flowers! He drew a long breath and murmured: “Ah, Little Sweetheart, where are you to-night? Are you living or dead? What would I not give to feel your soft little arms about my neck again, and see your sunny blue eyes looking into mine!” Suddenly he saw the tall figure of a man advancing up the path toward the house. He thought he recognized him, and went hastily forward. It was, as he had thought, the detective he had employed to trace the missing child. The man lifted his hat with a cry of pleasure. “Ah, Mr. de Vere, I should not have ventured in so late, but I saw that you were entertaining company, so I thought I would wait about the grounds in the hope of seeing you.” “You have news?” the young man exclaimed, eagerly. “Yes. I have found the little girl.” CHAPTER X. The guests were beginning to take leave. Already their gay farewells floated out upon the air of the night where Norman de Vere had been walking alone since the detective had left him. He went back to the house, deathly pale, but calm. When the last good-night had been uttered, when the echo of the carriage wheels had died away in the distance, the young man turned back into the house. His mother and his wife were going up the broad stairway to their rooms. He called them back. “I wish to speak with you in the library,” he said. His face was so white, his eyes so stern that they followed him in awe-struck silence. He locked the door and placed chairs for both. Beautiful Camille began to grow a little frightened. She cried out, half defiantly: “I wish you would wait till morning, Norman. I am tired and sleepy.” She flung herself indolently back in her chair, with her white arms upraised over her head, yawning lazily.