Jerked the lump of camphor unwrapped into the trunk, and made a vicious scoop among the layers of neatly packed clothing. "Is this a present, then?" he asked, drawing to light a flat oblong white box, and snapping the cord that bound it. Inside, resting on pink cotton wool, was a small silver-backed hand-mirror of fine workmanship. "Surely this must be a present?" he repeated, with the triumphant air of one who has dragged a secret crime to justice.
Maisie's mother looked nervous, and fidgeted visibly, but Maisie herself was imperturbable. "You are mistaken; it is not," she said, without a tremor.
The man glanced at her sharply, and shrugged his shoulders. "You keep it very nicely put away for an article in use," he hinted, turning over the box once or twice with manifest doubt and reluctance. "And these—are all these your own, too?" unearthing from some secret receptacle six little card-cases of blue leather, and spreading them out jeeringly in a row.
"I told you not to get so many, Maisie, but
