“The girl cannot help me,” she said.
Baffled by her manner, I drew back. “Is there anything or anybody that can?”
She slowly looked away.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I continued with renewed earnestness, “you have no brother to plead with you, you have no mother to guide you; let me then entreat, in default of nearer and dearer friends, that you will rely sufficiently upon me to tell me one thing.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Whether you took the paper imputed to you from the library table?”
She did not instantly respond, but sat looking earnestly before her with an intentness which seemed to argue that she was weighing the question as well as her reply. Finally, turning toward me, she said:
“In answering you, I speak in confidence. Mr. Raymond, I did.”
Crushing back the sigh of despair that arose to my lips, I went on.
“I will not inquire what the paper was,”—she waved her hand deprecatingly,—“but this much more you will tell me. Is that paper still in existence?”