"In league?"
Did she say it or only look it? I felt my heart swell at her piteous, her agonised expression. Mr. Gryce, as he called himself, may have seen it, but he appeared to be looking at the slip of paper he now drew from his pocket, and which we all recognised as that which she had shortly before let drop.
"You see this," he said, "it looks like a piece of perfectly blank paper."
"And it is," she declared. "Why he should send it to me I do not know. It was given me in an envelope by the gentleman at the door, who says he got it from my uncle before he died. Everyone here knows that."
"Very good. Now let me ask from what sheet your uncle tore this scrap of paper? You recognise it as paper you have seen before?"
"O, yes, it is part of what is used in the typewriter. At least I suppose it to be. It looks like it."
"Sweetwater, bring me the typewriter!"
Sweetwater was the young man who had before shown himself in attendance on the coroner.
"O, what does this mean?" asked Hope, shrinking back.
An oath answered her. George had reached the end of his patience.