But it was of no interest to me, and laying it aside, I picked up the next one. An account of the disappearance of Sir Thomas Winchester. "He had been murdered, most probably by robbers.... A great loss to London society. A diligent search has been made for him, but as yet without avail...."
I threw it aside with a smile. Evidently this was Dunraven's work, for though no name was signed to the paper, I had no doubt that he was the author. My lord wished it thought that I was dead, and most likely at that moment, with a solemn face, he was engaged in searching for my remains. If ever man had been fitted by nature to play two parts with consummate ease and skill, it was Dunraven.
Several other papers I saw; seemingly a diary of every movement of mine, and also of DeNortier's, from day to day, setting out the minutest instances of our lives, as though we ourselves had penned it.
The rest seemed to be the same; all but the last, a small, dainty billet, precisely penned, in a flowing hand, to the Viscount James Henry Hampden. I had seen that writing before; a faint odor as of some sweet flower yet clung to the paper. I had oft smelt just such a perfume, sweet, delicate. There was only one whom I knew, around whose dainty figure there lingered such an odor as this. Opening it with a hand which despite my efforts trembled, I read the few brief lines it contained. Only an acceptance to a ball, written months before, and signed with the name—Margaret Carroll.
Yet there, in that brilliantly-lighted room, in a far-away island, separated from her by leagues of rolling water, I pressed that sweet-scented billet to my lips, and forgetting all else, was happy. Thrusting it into my doublet, there next my breast, where I could feel the quick pulsing of my heart's blood against it, I arose to my feet.
Replacing the other papers in the oilcloth, I looked around the room. Where should it be concealed? I could not keep it about my person, that was out of the question. My eye fell upon a heavy chest against the wall, and moving it I pushed the papers under the bottom; they could stay there at least, until I could find a better place.
I was weary, and throwing myself, dressed as I was, upon the bed, I dropped off to sleep.