"Finish the tea-gown. I shall need it for the afternoon."

"Very well; I am sorry if I disturbed you, Mrs. Montague. Good-night,"
and Mona turned away from the door wondering what could have caused
such a clatter within the woman's room.

Mrs. Montague went back to the bay-window, righted the table, rearranged
its contents, and fitted the broken lid over them with hands that still
trembled with her recent excitement.

"What a pity that the lid is broken," she muttered, impatiently, "for now
it will do no good to lock it. I cannot help it, however, and perhaps no
one will suspect that there is a secret compartment beneath the slab."

She carefully replaced the heavy marble, moved the table to its usual
position, and then, worn out with the conflict she had experienced,
retired for the night.

But she did not sleep well; she was nervous, and tossed uneasily upon
her bed until far into the small hours of the morning, when she finally
dropped into a fitful slumber.

She was aroused from this about eight o'clock the following day by Mary,
who came as usual to bring her a cup of coffee, which she always drank
before rising. There also lay upon the tray a yellow official-looking
envelope.

"What is this?" Mrs. Montague demanded, as she seized it and regarded it
with some anxiety.