The evenings were beginning to draw out, and it would not be dark for an hour. “MY DEAR DAUGHTER,” it ran,—“Here, on the verge of the season of forgiveness I hold out a last hand to you in the hope of a reconciliation. I have suspected him of possessing a skeleton key to my apartments. “Before I came to England I was told that there were two things which an Englishman who was comme-ilfaut never did. Could you come to tea at my rooms one afternoon, or would you dine with me somewhere, and do a theatre? We could have a private room, of course, if you do not wish to be seen about London, and a box at the theatre. I'll take off your irons—for I guess that's the reason why you want the hammer and file—on one condition. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.
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