"I've already sent for the necessary information. I've done even more than that. I couldn't wait for the slow process of the mails. I cabled this morning to Grimston, one of my Paris partners, to wire me the cause of George Eveleth's death, as officially registered. This is his reply."
He held up the envelope Diane had placed on the desk earlier in the evening.
"Why don't you open it?" she asked, in a whisper of suspense.
"I've been afraid to. I've been afraid that it would prove him right in the one detail in which I'm able to put his word to the test. I've been hoping against hope that you would clear yourself; but if this is in his favor—"
"Open it," she pleaded.
With the silver dagger she had laid ready to his hand he ripped up the envelope, and drew out the paper.
"Read it," he said, passing it to her, without unfolding it.
Though it contained but one word, Diane took a long time to decipher it. For minutes she stared at it, as though the power of comprehension had forsaken her. Again and again she lifted her eyes to his, in sheer bewilderment, only to drop them then once more on the all but blank sheet in her hand. At last it seemed as if her fingers had no more strength to hold it, and she let it flutter to the floor.
"He was right?"
The question came in a hoarse undertone, but Diane had no voice in which to reply. She could only nod her head in dumb assent.