When I was alone my eyes turned involuntarily towards the small desk
littered with letters, cards, and books. I approached, and my eyes ran
for an instant over the papers, as if they sought to discover--what?
The _proof_, perhaps? I dismissed this base and stupid suspicion. I
looked at a book covered with an antique cloth, with a small dagger
stuck between the leaves. She had not yet finished reading it, and had
cut only about half of it. It was the latest novel by Filippo Arborio,
_The Secret_. I read on the frontispiece an autographic dedication by
the author:
TO YOU,
JULIANA HERMIL, TURRIS EBURNEA,