"O no, he never reads novels, not such novels as this, at all events. He loses a lot of pleasure, we think."
I turned the pages over. The latter ones were so fresh I could almost put my finger on the spot where the reader had left off. Feeling like a bloodhound who has just run upon a trail, I returned the book to Caroline, with the injunction to put it away; adding, as I saw her air of hesitation: "If your brother Franklin misses it, it will show that he brought it here, and then I shall have no further interest in it." Which seemed to satisfy her, for she put it away at once on a high shelf.
Perceiving nothing else in these rooms of a suggestive character, I led the way into the hall. There I had a new idea.
"Which of you was the first to go through the rooms upstairs?" I inquired.
"Both of us," answered Isabella. "We came together. Why do you ask, Miss Butterworth?"
"I was wondering if you found everything in order there?"
"We did not notice anything wrong, did we, Caroline? Do you think that the—the person who committed that awful crime went up-stairs? I couldn't sleep a wink if I thought so."
"Nor I," Caroline put in. "O, don't say that he went up-stairs, Miss Butterworth!"
"I do not know it," I rejoined.
"But you asked——"