“So can I,” came back the same tense voice, “when I know the truth about that friend.”
Then for the first time tears came in a storm. Her breath was quick and feverish. “No one will ever believe, no one will understand. They will say that I killed him, that I murdered him.”
Through it all I stood almost speechless, puzzled. What did it all mean?
“No,” said Kennedy, “no, for they will never know of it.”
“Never know?”
“Never—if in the end justice is done. Have you the will? Or did you destroy it?”
It was a bold stroke.
“Yes. No. Here it is. How could I destroy it, even though it was burning out my very soul?”
She literally tore the paper from the bosom of her dress and cast it from her in horror and terror.
Kennedy picked it up, opened it, and glanced hurriedly through it. “Miss Bond,” he said, “Jack shall never know a word of this. I shall tell him that the will has been found unexpectedly in John Fletcher's desk among some other papers. Walter, swear on your honour as a gentleman that this will was found in old Fletcher's desk.”