book, and he was glad to find the opportunity to write her a letter.
He had hoped to return to her instead, but had found several other
matters which demanded his attention, and he preferred to look into
them at once, otherwise he would be obliged to return later on.

His study was a comfortable little den just off the library, and its
four walls had witnessed the worst of his moods and the most roseate
of his dreams. In it he had frequently sat up all night talking
with his grandmother, and the atmosphere had vibrated with some hot
disputes. There was a divan across one end, some bookshelves across
the other, and on one side was a desk with a revolving chair before
it. Above the desk hung a battle-axe which he had brought from
America. Opposite was a heavily curtained window, and near it a door
which led into his private apartments. Between was a heavy piece of
furniture of Byzantine manufacture. As he entered the little room
for the first time since his arrival, he stood for a moment with a
retrospective smile in his eyes. He almost fancied he could see his
grandmother half-reclining on one end of the divan, with a pillow
beneath her elbow, her stately head, with its tower of white hair,
thrown imperiously, somewhat superciliously back, as her eyes flashed
and her mouth poured forth a torrent of overwhelming argument. "Poor
old girl!" he thought; "why do women like that have to die? How she
and Weir would have--argued, to put it mildly. I am afraid I should
have had to put a continent between them. But I would give a good deal
to see her again, all the same."

He shut the door, sat down before his desk, and took a bunch of keys
from his pocket. As he did so, his eyes fell upon one of curious
workmanship, and he felt a sudden sense of pleasant anticipation. That
key opened the Byzantine chest opposite, somewhere in whose cunningly