“You told me, when you first came to me with news of this fearful tragedy, that it was a mystery; but it is one which must be solved, Mr. Harwell; it is wearing out the lives of too many whom we love and respect.”
The secretary gave me a look. “Miss Eleanore?” he murmured.
“And Miss Mary,” I went on; “myself, you, and many others.”
“You have manifested much interest in the matter from the beginning,”—he said, methodically dipping his pen into the ink.
I stared at him in amazement.
“And you,” said I; “do you take no interest in that which involves not only the safety, but the happiness and honor, of the family in which you have dwelt so long?”
He looked at me with increased coldness. “I have no wish to discuss this subject. I believe I have before prayed you to spare me its introduction.” And he arose.
“But I cannot consider your wishes in this regard,” I persisted. “If you know any facts, connected with this affair, which have not yet been made public, it is manifestly your duty to state them. The position which Miss Eleanore occupies at this time is one which should arouse the sense of justice in every true breast; and if you——”
“If I knew anything which would serve to release her from her unhappy position, Mr. Raymond, I should have spoken long ago.”
I bit my lip, weary of these continual bafflings, and rose also.