"Would it give you any concern if I did not?"
My face flushed as I stood before him. Instead of answering, I bent it like a culprit—like a simpleton.
"I may cheat the doctors yet," he said, cheerfully.
"Have you been ill long?"
"I have not been quite well. Anxiety of mind sometimes takes its revenge upon the body."
He moved away to his desk as he spoke, which stood on a side-table. It was quite evident he did not wish to pursue the topic. What could I do but let it drop? Taking up my work, I carried it to the window, while he stood rummaging the desk, evidently searching for something. Every individual thing was at length turned out of it and put back again.
"Well, it's very strange!"
"What is it, sir?" That sir! as he would say. But I felt too shy, in my new and all-conscious feeling for him, to discard it entirely.
He had missed his note-book. One he was in the habit of using for any purpose; as a sort of diary, and also to enter business matters. That he had locked it up in his desk when he last wrote in it, two days ago, he felt absolutely certain.
"Have you left your keys about, sir?"