He posted this before eight in the morning, went off to seek his old charwoman in Clerkenwell, breakfasted outside, came home, and set to work afresh upon the pictures.
And that proved a day of days for him. For, before noon, on opening the back of a mezzotint of the “Fighting Temeraire,” he found a book, large, flat, and ivory-white. Its silver clasp was locked. He could not see within, yet he understood that it was no printed book, but in manuscript, and that here was the diary of Gwendoline Mordaunt. He was still exulting over it, searching now with fresh zeal for more treasure, when he received a note: “Miss Mordaunt hopes to lay some flowers on her sister’s grave this evening about five.”
Her paper had a scent of violets, and David, in putting it to his nostrils, allowed his lips, too, to steal a kiss;—for happy men do sometimes kiss scented paper. And he was happy, thinking how, when he presented the diary to her, he would see her glad and thankful.
At the very hour, however, when he was thus rejoicing, Van Hupfeldt was going up the stairs at 60A, Porchester Gardens. He was limping and leaning on his valet, and his dark skin was now so much paler than usual that on his entrance into the drawing-room Mrs. Mordaunt cried out:
“Why, what is the matter?”
“Do not distress yourself at all,” said Van Hupfeldt, limping on his stick toward her. “Only a slight accident—a fall off a stumbling horse in the park this morning—my knee—it is better now—”
“Oh, I am so sorry! But you should not have come; you are evidently still in pain. So distressing! Sit here; let me—”
“No, really,” said he, “it is nearly all right now, dear Mrs. Mordaunt. I have so much to say, and so little time to say it in. Where is Violet?”
“She is in her bed-room; will soon be down. Let me place this cushion—”