ment of my writing-table." And he took up the packet he had left out, holding it before her eyes. "A lot of other things like that."
"What are they?" murmured Mrs. Ryves.
"I haven't the least idea. They're sealed."
"You haven't broken the seals?" She had come further back.
"I haven't had time; it only happened ten minutes ago."
"I knew it," said Mrs. Ryves, more gaily now.
"What did you know?"
"That you were in some predicament."
"You're extraordinary. I never heard of anything so miraculous; down two flights of stairs."
"Are you in a quandary?" the visitor asked.
"Yes, about giving them back." Peter Baron stood smiling at her and rapping his packet on the palm of his hand. "What do you advise?"
She herself smiled now, with her eyes on the sealed parcel. "Back to whom?"
"The man of whom I bought the table."
"Ah then, they're not from your family?"
"No indeed, the piece of furniture in which they were hidden is not an ancestral possession. I bought it at second hand—you see it's old—the other day in the King's Road. Obviously the man who sold it to me sold me more than he meant; he had no idea (from his own point of view it was stupid of him), that there was a hidden chamber or that mysterious documents were buried there. Ought I to go and tell him? It's rather a nice question."
