THE BRASS BOWL
Then, with a satisfied smile, he turned away, with purpose to dispose of Bannerman's note.
"Bath's ready, sor."
O'Hagan's announcement fell upon heedless ears. Maitland remained motionless before the desk—transfixed with amazement.
"Bath's ready, sor!"—imperatively.
Maitland roused slightly.
"Very well; in a minute, O'Hagan."
Yet for some time he did not move. Slowly the heavy brows contracted over intent eyes as he strove to puzzle it out. At length his lips moved noiselessly.
"Am I awake?" was the question he put his consciousness.
Wondering, he bent forward and drew the tip of one forefinger across the black polished wood of the writing-bed. It left a dark, heavy line. And beside it, clearly defined in the heavy layer of dust, was the silhouette of a hand; a woman's hand, small, delicate, unmistakably feminine of contour.
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