"A commission was intrusted to me yesterday, Mr. St. John," she said, "that I would deliver this into your own hands. I have also a message----"
"Which you can give him presently," interrupted Rose.
He glanced at the packet; he glanced at the seal, "A.L. de C.;" he looked at the other side, at the strange, sprawling address.
"Not a very elegant superscription," he observed, carelessly, as he slipped the parcel into the breast-pocket of his coat. "I don't recognize the handwriting."
"Yet you were once familiar with it, Mr. St. John."
"Oh, never!" answered he. "Not, certainly, to my recollection."
They were now at the door of the drawing-room. Rose, feeling a sick terror at the thought of what she was going to behold, laid her hand momentarily on Mr. St. John, as if doubting her own capability to support herself.
"Are you ill?" he inquired, looking at her pale face.
"A slight faintness," she murmured. "It will go off."
It was in front of them, at the other end of the room as they entered. It! But they could not see it distinctly for a moment together, so many persons were pushing on before them. Mr. St. John, who was taller than most persons present, obtained a more distinct view than Rose.