his eyes.

"And mademoiselle is so beautiful!" he whispered.

"What the devil business is it of yours?" said I, in a low but fierce
tone.

"None," said he. "I am content to leave it to you, sir;" and without more
he turned and went downstairs.

It was all very well to leave it to me; but what--failing that simple,
easy, proper, and impossible course of action which I have indicated--was
I to do?

Well, what I did was this: I went to the door of the room and knocked
softly. There was no answer. The sobs continued. I had been a brute to
this girl in the morning; I thought of that as I stood outside.

"My God! what's the matter with her?" I whispered.

And then I opened the door softly.

Marie Delhasse sat in a chair, her head resting in her hands and her hands
on the table; and her body was shaken with her weeping.

And on the table, hard by her bowed golden head, there lay a square
leathern box. I stood on the threshold and looked at her.

The rest of the day did not now seem likely to be dull; but it might prove
to have in store for me more difficult tasks than the enduring of a little