The desk was only latched--beastly carelessness, of course!--and inside it were three thick piles of letters, and a few loose ones below.

His own letters to Chloe; and--by George!--the lost one!--among the others.

He opened it eagerly, ran it through.

Yes, the very thing! What luck! He laid it carefully aside a moment on a trunk near by, and sat with the other letters on his lap.
His fingers played with them.

He almost determined to take them down unopened, and burn them, as they were, in his own room; but in the end he could not resist the temptation to look at them once more.