"Not very likely, I think," said Dot, flushing.
Nevertheless, since she valued it, she finished dressing in haste and departed to search for it.
There was no one about with the exception of a man who was cleaning up the billiard-room and assured her that her property was not there. So she passed on along the passage to the shabby little glass-house whither she and Fletcher had retreated on the previous evening.
She expected to find the place deserted, and was surprised by a whiff of tobacco-smoke as she entered. The next moment sharply she drew back; for a man's figure rose up from the seat under the billiard-room window on which she had rested the previous evening. His great frame seemed to fill the place. Dot turned to flee.
But on the instant he spoke, checking her. "Don't go for a moment! I know what you're looking for. It's that little heart of yours. I've got it here."
She paused almost in spite of herself. His voice was pitched very low. He spoke to her as if he were speaking to a frightened child. And he smiled at her with the words—a frank and kindly smile.
"You—you found it!" she stammered.
"Yes, I found it, Miss Burton." He lingered over the name half unconsciously, and a poignant stab of memory went through her. So had he uttered it on that day so long, so long ago! "I knew it was yours. I was trying to bring myself to give it to Mr. Hill."
"How did you know it was mine?" She almost whispered the words, yet she drew nearer to him, drawn irresistibly—drawn as a needle to the magnet.
He answered her also under his breath. "I—remembered."