"Yes, Lionel, I do love you," she said at last, so low that I had to bring my ear close to her lips to catch the words. "And--and if you really mean that you want me for your wife--" "Really mean it!" I echoed. "My dear love, cannot you understand that I live for you alone--only you--that for you to be my wife is the greatest, almost the only wish of my life?" "Then it shall be as you wish," she said softly. What passionate words escaped me I do not remember. All I know is that our lips met again and again many, many times, and we sat in each other's embraces childishly blissful in our new-born happiness. For a long time, indeed, no further word was spoken between us. Our minds were too full for mere uttered phrases. Thus we sat until recalled to a sudden consciousness of the situation by the nurse's light tap upon the door. Then, before I left that room, and heedless of the presence of the nurse, I bent and kissed fondly upon the lips my wife who was to be. Ah! can I adequately describe my feelings that evening, my heart-bursting to tell to some intimate friend the secret of our love? No, I will leave you who have loved to imagine the boundless joy I felt at the knowledge that Asta loved me after all, and that we were betrothed. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. PLOT AND COUNTER-PLOT. In London next day I met Mr Fryer by appointment at half-past eleven at the Holborn Restaurant, being near Chancery Lane, and together we went to the Safe Deposit Company's vaults, where we obtained the ancient cylinder from the strong box in which I had placed it, and then entered a taxi and drove to the City. Across Holborn, in Red Lion Street, we found a locksmith, and took him with us to Fryer's office in London Wall. He brought with him some tools, but when he seated himself and examined the mysterious cylinder he shook his head, remarking--"This'll be a pretty tough job. It's been very well welded together. I'll have to file it off!" "Is it ancient welding?" I asked. "Oh no, sir. It's a very ancient bit o' bronze, but the top's been off of late, and when, welded on it's been painted over green to imitate the patina of the old bronze. Whoever did it was one of those fakers of antiques, I should say." "Well," said the solicitor, "make a start on it, and get it open." The mechanic seated himself at the table and, taking up a long sharp file, began to cut into the hard metal, while we stood aside watching him intently. What could it be that was so securely concealed therein--the Thing that had been withheld even from Mr Fryer, the dead man's confidant in everything? For a quarter of an hour the man worked hard, but made little or no impression upon the ancient metal. So the solicitor took me into an adjoining room, where after a brief chat he said--