“Ah, no!” I said. “I shall never forget it, Monsieur Maurice. Poor Ali! Have you still the piece of fringe you found lying in the road?”
He unlocked his desk and touched a secret spring; whereupon a small drawer flew out from a recess just under the lock.
“Here it is,” he said, taking out a piece of folded paper.
It contained the thing he had described—a scrap of fringe composed of crimson and yellow twist, about two inches in length.
“And those other things?” I said, peering into the secret drawer with a child's inquisitiveness. “Have they a history, too?”
Monsieur Maurice hesitated—took them out—sighed—and said, somewhat reluctantly:—
“You may see them, little Gretchen, if you will. Yes; they, too, have their history—but let it be. We have had enough sad stories for to-day.”
Those other things, as I had called them, were a withered rose in a little cardboard box, and a miniature of a lady in a purple morocco case.