“He is a very busy man,” returned Paula simply, and was silent, struck by some secret dread she could not have explained. Suddenly she rose; she had found an envelope beneath her plate, addressed to herself. It was bulky and evidently contained a key. Hastening behind the curtains of the window, she opened it. The key was to that secret study of his at the top of the house, which no one but himself had ever been seen to enter, and the words that enwrapped it were these:
“If I send you no word to the contrary, and if I do not come back by seven o’clock this evening, go to the room of which this is the key, open my desk, and read what I have prepared for your eyes.
“E. S.”
XXXVII.
THE OPINION OF A CERTAIN NOTED DETECTIVE.
“But still there clung
One hope, like a keen sword on starting threads uphung.”—Revolt of Islam.
“Facts are stubborn things.”—Elliott.
Meanwhile Mr. Stuyvesant hasted on his way down town and ere long made his appearance at the bank. He found Mr. Sylvester and Bertram seated in the directors’ room, with a portly smooth-faced man whose appearance was at once strange and vaguely familiar.
“A detective, sir,” explained Mr. Sylvester rising with forced composure; “a man upon whose judgment I have been told we may rely. Mr. Gryce, Mr. Stuyvesant.”