Mr. Troy heard her, and stepped forward to interfere before Lady Lydiard
could speak. The man had recovered his self-control; the lawyer took his
place again on the scene.

"You must not leave us, my dear," he said to Isabel, "until I have put a
question to Mr. Moody in which you are interested. Do you happen to have
the number of the lost bank-note?" he asked, turning to the steward.

Moody produced his slip of paper with the number on it. Mr. Troy made
two copies of it before he returned the paper. One copy he put in his
pocket, the other he handed to Isabel.

"Keep it carefully," he said. "Neither you nor I know how soon it may be
of use to you."

Receiving the copy from him, she felt mechanically in her apron for her
pocketbook. She had used it, in playing with the dog, as an object to
hide from him; but she had suffered, and was still suffering, too keenly
to be capable of the effort of remembrance. Moody, eager to help her
even in the most trifling thing, guessed what had happened. "You were
playing with Tommie," he said; "is it in the next room?"

The dog heard his name pronounced through the open door. The next moment
he trotted into the drawing-room with Isabel's pocketbook in his mouth.
He was a strong, well-grown Scotch terrier of the largest size, with
bright, intelligent eyes, and a coat of thick curling white hair,
diversified by two light brown patches on his back. As he reached
the middle of the room, and looked from one to another of the persons
present, the fine sympathy of his race told him that there was trouble
among his human friends. His tail dropped; he whined softly as he