"But―"
"Martin didn't know the combination. He's been away two years, and he never had occasion to. The only ones who knew it were myself and Mr. Payne-and Herbert. I saw it standing open last night."
"Something was taken?"
"I don't think so. There was never anything valuable left in there. When father built this office here, he stopped using it. I'm sure he hadn't opened it for years, and none of the rest of us ever did. It was just full of some old papers for years back… It wasn't that anything had been taken; at least, anything I know of. It was something I found."
He wondered whether she were becoming hysterical. She rose from the sofa, opened a secretary-desk with a key hung round her neck, and took out a yellowed piece of paper. As she handed it to him, he fought down a desire to take her in his arms.
"Read it!" she said, breathlessly. "I trust you. I won't tell the others. I must tell somebody…. Read it."
He glanced down, puzzled. It was headed, "Feb. 3, 1895. My copy of the verses — Timothy Starberth," in faded ink. It read:
How called the dwellers of Lyn-dun?
Great Homer's tale of Troy,
Or country of the midnight sun