Don Bernardino de Escoban's narrative and handed it to her. She looked at it, turned over the pages, and glanced at them as she went. Then she returned to the beginning, and after reading the first few lines, said to me with an eager look in her eyes:
"Is this really the translation of the secret writing? Oh, I am so glad you have succeeded. You are cute!" She took out her watch, and having looked at it, went on: "We have loads of time. Won't you read it for me? It will be so much nicer! And let me ask you questions."
"Delighted!" I answered, "But would it not be better if I read it right through first, and then let you ask questions! Or better still you read it yourself right through, and then ask." I had a purpose in this. If I had to read it, my eyes must be wholly engrossed in my work; but if she read, I need never take them off her face. I longed to see the varying expression with which she would follow every phase of the strange story. She thought for a few seconds before answering, and as she thought looked me straight in the eyes. I think she read my secret, or at any rate enough of it to fathom my wish; nothing else could account for the gentle blush that spread over her face. Then she said in quite a meek tone:
"I shall read it myself if you think it best!"
I shall never forget that reading. Her face, always expressive, was to me like an open book. I was by this time quite familiar with de Escoban's narrative, as I had with infinite patience dug it out letter by letter from the cipher in which it had been buried for so long. As also I had written it out fair twice over, it was little wonder that I knew it well. As she read I so followed that I could have told to a sentence how far she had got in the history. Once she unconsciously put her hand to
