When all went away that evening, Mildred remained behind.
"Christine," she said, "I have something to tell you. Take me somewhere—to some dark place—where we can whisper."
One might as well have talked at the top of his voice, just where they were, for any chance of being heard; but guilt made the woman tremble.
"Come into the Picture Gallery," said Christine, leading the way. "No one can hear what we say there. My dear, in the old days when people were going to conspire they always began by going to dark galleries, vaults, and secret places. This is quite delightful. I feel like a conspirator."
"Don't laugh at me, dear," said Mildred; "for, indeed, when you have heard what I have to say, you will feel very much more like a conspirator."
The room was in darkness, but for the moonlight which poured in through the windows of one side, and made queer work with the pictures on which it fell. At the end the moonlight shone through the door, hardly ever used, which led from the Gallery into the Garden of the College beyond.
"What is that?" Mildred caught Christine by the hand.
"It is the door leading into the College Gardens. How came it open?"
"Have you a key?"
"I suppose there is a key on the old rusty bunch hanging up in the Museum, but I do not know—I have never tried the keys. Who could have opened it?"
Christine walked down the Gallery hastily, Mildred following. The door was standing wide open.
"Who has done this?" asked Christine, again. "I can-
