It was a wintry night, and the second anniversary of Mr. Rightbody's death, that a light was burning in his library. But the dead man's chair was occupied by young Mr. Ryder, adopted son of the new proprietor of the mansion; and before him stood Alice, with her dark eyes fixed on the table.
“There must have been something in it, Joe, believe me. Did you never hear your father speak of mine?”
“Never.”
“But you say he was college-bred, and born a gentleman, and in his youth he must have had many friends.”
“Alice,” said the young man gravely, “when I have done something to redeem my name, and wear it again before these people, before YOU, it would be well to revive the past. But till then—”
But Alice was not to be put down. “I remember,” she went on, scarcely heeding him, “that, when I came in that night, papa was reading a letter, and seemed to be disconcerted.”
“A letter?”
“Yes; but,” added Alice, with a sigh, “when we found him here insensible, there was no letter on his person. He must have destroyed it.”
“Did you ever look among his papers? If found, it might be a clew.”
The young man glanced toward the cabinet. Alice read his eyes, and answered,—