look into this," she said. "How can a box
that has not been opened since seventeen
hundred and sixty help us to discover the
mystery of Mrs. Jazeph and the Myrtle
Room?"

"But do we know that it has not been
opened since then?" said Leonard. "Might
not the tape and seal have been put round it
by anybody at some more recent period of
time? You can judge best, because you can
see if there is any inscription on the tape, or
any signs to form an opinion by, upon the seal."

"The seal is a blank, Lenny, except that
it has a flower like a Forget-me-not in the
middle. I can see no mark of a pen on
either side of the tape. Anybody in the
world might have opened the box before
me," she continued, forcing up the lid easily
with her hands, "for the lock is no protection
to it. The wood of the cover is so rotten
that I have pulled the staple out, and left it
sticking by itself in the lock below."

On examination, the box proved to be
full of papers. At the top of the uppermost
packet were written these words:—"Election
expenses. I won by four votes. Price fifty
pounds each. J. A. Treverton." The next
layer of papers had no inscription. Rosamond
opened them, and read on the first leaf:
"Birthday Ode. Respectfully addressed to
the Mæcenas of modern times in his poetic
retirement at Porthgenna." Below this
production, appeared a collection of old bills, old
notes of invitation, old doctor's prescriptions,
and old leaves of betting-books, tied together
with a piece of whipcord. Last of all, there
lay on the bottom of the box, one thin leaf
of paper, the visible side of which presented
a perfect blank. Rosamond took it up, turned
it to look at the other side, and saw some
faint ink lines crossing each other in various
directions, and having letters of the alphabet
attached to them in certain places. She had
made her husband acquainted with the
contents of all the other papers, as a matter of
course; and when she had described this last
paper to him, he explained to her that the
lines and letters represented a mathematical
problem.

''The book-case tells us nothing," said
Rosamond, slowly putting the papers back in
the box. "Shall we try the writing-table by
the fire-place, next?"

"What does it look like, Rosamond?"

"It has two rows of drawers down each
side; and the whole top is made in an odd,
old-fashioned way to slope upwards, like a
very large writing-desk."

"Does the top open?"

Rosamond went to the table, examined it
narrowly, and then tried to raise the top.
"It is made to open, for I see the keyhole,''
she said. "But it is locked. And all the
drawers," she continued, trying them one
after another, "are locked too."

"Is there no key in any of them? " asked
Leonard.

"Not a sign of one. But the top feels so
loose that I really think it might be forced
open—as I forced the little box open just
now—by a pair of stronger hands than I can
boast of. Let me take you to the table, dear;
it may give way to your strength, though it
will not to mine."

She placed her husband's hands carefully
under the ledge formed by the overhanging
top of the table. He exerted his whole
strength to force it up; but, in this case, the
wood was sound, the lock held, and all his
efforts were in vain.

"Must we send for a locksmith?" asked
Rosamond, with a look of disappointment.

"If the table is of any value, we must,"
returned her husband. "If not, a screw-
driver and a hammer will open both the top
and the drawers, in anybody's hands."

"In that case, Lenny, I wish we had
brought them with us when we came into
the room; for the only value of the table
lies in the secrets that it may be hiding from
us. I shall not feel satisfied, until you and I
know what there is inside of it."

While saying these words, she took her
husband's hand to lead him back to his seat.
As they passed before the fire-place, he
stepped upon the bare stone hearth; and,
feeling some new substance under his feet,
instinctively stretched out the hand that
was free. It touched a marble tablet, with
figures on it in basso-relievo, which had been
let into the middle of the chimney-piece. He
stopped immediately, and asked what the
object was that his fingers had accidentally
touched.

"A piece of sculpture," said Rosamond.
"I did not notice it before. It is not very
large, and not particularly attractive,
according to my taste. So far as I can tell, it
seems to be intended to represent——"

Leonard stopped her before she could say
any more. "Let me try, for once, if I can't
make a discovery for myself," he said, a little
impatiently. "Let me try if my fingers won't
tell me what this sculpture is meant to represent."

He passed his hands carefully over the
basso-relievo (Rosamond watching their
slightest movement with silent interest, the
while), considered a little, and said:—

"Is there not a figure of a man sitting
down, in the right hand corner? And are
there not rocks and trees, very stiffly done,
high up, at the left hand side?"

Rosamond looked at him tenderly, and
smiled. "My poor dear!" she said. " Your
man sitting down is, in reality, a miniature
copy of the famous ancient statue of Niobe
and her child; your rocks are marble
imitations of clouds, and your stiffly done
trees are arrows darting out from some
invisible Jupiter or Apollo, or other heathen
god. Ah, Lenny, Lenny! you can't trust
your touch, love, as you can trust me!"

A momentary shade of vexation passed