they would have the evening together. When he followed her to the
drawing-room after dinner he thought himself on the point of
speaking; but as she handed him his coffee he said, involuntarily:
"I shall have to carry this off to the study, I've got a lot of
work to-night."

Alone in the study he cursed his cowardice. What was it that had
withheld him? A certain bright unapproachableness seemed to keep
him at arm's length. She was not the kind of woman whose
compassion could be circumvented; there was no chance of slipping
past the outposts; he would never take her by surprise. Well--why
not face her, then? What he shrank from could be no worse than
what he was enduring. He had pushed back his chair and turned to
go upstairs when a new expedient presented itself. What if,
instead of telling her, he were to let her find out for herself
and watch the effect of the discovery before speaking? In this
way he made over to chance the burden of the revelation.

The idea had been suggested by the sight of the formula enclosing
the publisher's check. He had deposited the money, but the notice
accompanying it dropped from his note-case as he cleared his table
for work. It was the formula usual in such cases and revealed
clearly enough that he was the recipient of a royalty on Margaret
Aubyn's letters. It would be impossible for Alexa to read it
without understanding at once that the letters had been written to
him and that he had sold them. . . .

He sat downstairs till he heard her ring for the parlor-maid to
put out the lights; then he went up to the drawing-room with a
bundle of papers in his hand. Alexa was just rising from her seat