To them he was a remote enigmatic figure of conveyances and legal deeds; one deeply versed in human follies and foibles, but impervious to human feeling, independent of human companionship.

The reserved glance of his cold grey eye betokened that he guarded his own secrets as closely as he guarded the secrets entrusted to him professionally.

But there was human nature in him--deep down.

It was not much--a lock of hair in a sealed packet in his pocket-book.

The giver was dead and gone to dust, sleeping in an old churchyard near the Strand, forgotten by all who had ever known her--except one.