Her smile, half pathetic, half appealing, was certainly sufficient to turn the head of a dozen young men such as Sydney Barnes.
"I have told you," she continued, "that your brother and I used to be very good friends.

I wrote him now and then some rather foolish letters.
He promised to destroy them, but--men are so foolish, you know, sometimes--I was never quite sure that he had kept his word, and I meant to take this opportunity of looking for myself that he had not left them about.

You do not blame me, Mr.Sydney?
You are not cross ?" He kept his eyes upon her as though fascinated.
"No!" he said.

"No! I mean of course not." "These letters," she continued, "you have not seen them, Mr.Sydney?
No?
Or you, Mr.Wrayson ?" "We have not come across any letters at all answering to that description," Wrayson assured her.
The Baroness glanced across at Barnes, who was certainly regarding her in somewhat peculiar fashion.
"Why does Mr.Sydney look at me like that ?" she asked, with a little shrug of the shoulders.

"He does not think that I came here to steal?
Why, Mr.Sydney," she added, "I am very, very much richer than ever your brother was." "Richer--than he was! Richer than two thousand a year!" he gasped.
The Baroness laughed softly but heartily.