"Shall I keep the appointment?" Lady Vera asks herself many times that day.

A certain doubt and dread hovers intangibly in her mind. Will she really obtain the lost memorandum-book, or is it only some trap her enemies have set for her?

She longs to consult Sir Harry and Lady Clive, but the warning of the writer deters her.

"She must come alone and unwatched, or she will accomplish nothing."

Lady Vera has a premonition that her friends would by no means permit her to accede to the writer's demands, yet she decides within herself that there is really no danger in doing so.

Sir Harry Clive's theory of the loss of her book is no doubt correct. Some strolling thief, probably the old hag of Hal's story, has pilfered it for the sake of the golden clasps, and now, attracted by the offered reward, is eager to restore it.

After weighing the matter in her mind all day, she decides to keep the appointment. She is most anxious to recover the lost book again, spurred onward to even more eagerness by her desire to prove to the baronet that her strange story is no dream, as he too evidently persists in believing.

Yet, obeying the "still, small voice," that whispers to the heart of danger, Lady Vera decides to take some few precautions for her safety in case that treachery should assail her.

As evening approaches she incloses the letter of her mysterious correspondent in an envelope, together with a small note, saying that she had gone to meet the writer. She seals it and addresses it to Sir Harry Clive.

A great restlessness comes over Lady Vera as the hour approaches in which she is to meet the unknown possessor of the lost book.

With some trivial excuse to her friends for deserting their company, she retires to her room and summons her faithful Elsie.

Elsie, by the way, has been made happy for life by the settlement upon her by her mistress of a generous marriage portion.

She is engaged to Robert Hill, the gardener, and Lady Vera has taken this method of testifying her gratitude to Elsie by smoothing their path to a speedy marriage.

Now with some little nervousness Lady Vera puts into Elsie's hands the letter addressed to Sir Harry Clive.

"Elsie, I am going out for a little while," she says, with as much calmness and indifference as she can command. "I leave this letter in your keeping. Keep it faithful for one hour. If I return in one hour you may give it back into my hands. If, on the contrary, I fail to be here by that time, you must give it immediately to Sir Harry Clive."

The maid looks at her, a little frightened by the gravity of the charge and by Lady Vera's pale, strange face.

"It will soon be dusk, my lady. It is too late for you to be out alone. If you must go out, take someone with you," urges Elsie.

"Nonsense!" her mistress laughs, reassuringly. "I am not afraid to walk in my own grounds at this hour of the evening; I have done so often before. Do not tell anyone I am out unless the hour elapses before I return. Then you may raise the alarm."

"My lady, I am afraid to let you go like this," objects the maid. "It seems as if you anticipate danger yourself; I am sure it is wrong for you to go."

But Lady Vera at this shows the sterner side of her character, which is seldom turned to her adoring dependants.

"You will obey my orders, Elsie," she answers, haughtily.

"I beg your pardon, my lady," falters Elsie, bursting into tears.

"There, there, Elsie, I did not mean to hurt you," Lady Vera says, melted at once. "But you must not try to hinder me. Give me some light wrapper now to keep the dew off my dress."

Elsie brings a long, dark circular of thin cloth and delivers it to her mistress with many silent forebodings—forebodings destined to be only too sadly realized.

For who can tell how long it will be before the light footsteps of Countess Vera shall echo on the threshold of the palatial home she is leaving so eagerly and secretly, now, to keep her tryst with her mysterious correspondent.

Not Elsie, who weeps so silently, filled with strange, prescient fears.

It is growing dusk indeed as Lady Vera, wrapped in the dark circular, with the hood drawn over her head, flits rapidly along the quiet road.

When at last in the distance she descries the bent and drooping figure of an old woman, she laughs to herself at the vague fears that have troubled her.

"Poor, harmless old rogue," she says to herself, half pityingly. "One need apprehend no danger from her. A few shillings will buy back my lost treasure and make the old creature happy. I was foolish to fear anything. I am very glad I came!"