"What are you doing with my letters, Mr. Kennedy?" she asked, in an astonished tone, evidently resenting the unceremoniousness with which he had apparently been overhauling her correspondence.
As guardedly as possible, Kennedy met her inquiry, which I could not myself blame her for making.
"I beg pardon, Miss Dodge," he said, "but a matter has just come up which necessitated merely a cursory examination of some purely formal letters which might have an important bearing on the discovery of the Clutching Hand. Your Aunt had no idea where you were, nor of when you might return, and the absolute necessity for haste in such an important matter is my only excuse for examining a few minor letters without first obtaining your permission."
She said nothing. At another time, such an explanation would have been instantly accepted. Now, however, it was different.
Kennedy read the look on her face, and an instant later turned to Aunt
Josephine and myself.
"I would very much appreciate a chance to say a few words to Miss Dodge alone," he intimated. "I have had no such opportunity for some time. If you would be so kind as to leave us in the library—for a few minutes—"
He did not finish the sentence. Aunt Josephine had already begun to withdraw and I followed.
. . . . . . . .
For a moment or two, Craig and Elaine looked at each other, neither saying a word, each wondering just what was in the other's mind. Kennedy was wondering if there was any X-ray that might read a woman's heart, as he was accustomed to read others of nature's secrets.
He cleared his throat, the obvious manner of covering up his emotion.