The match was struck, the key was inserted in the lock, and turned. As the cigar end glowed the drawer was opened. Mr. Greyne heard a contralto cry. He turned from the arm-chair in which he was just about to seat himself.
“My love, is anything the matter?”
His wife was bending forward with both hands in the drawer, telling over its contents.
“My diary is not here!”
“Your diary!”
“It is gone.”
“But”—he came over to her—“this is very serious. I presume, like all diaries, it is full of——” Instinctively he had been about to say “damning”; he remembered his dear one’s irreproachable character and substituted “precious secrets.”
“It is full of matter which must never be given to the world—my secret thoughts, my aspirations. The whole history of my soul is there.”
“Heavens! It must be found.”
They searched the writing-table. They searched the room. No diary.