He inclined his head.
“Yes, I know that; and I know what you expected—hoped, shall I say; that I should find something, some papers that would give us a clew to your parentage. Is that not so?”
Doris’ lips formed the “Yes.”
He sighed and shook his head.
“I regret there is no such clew. The secret of your birth, my dear young lady, is buried in my poor friend’s grave.”
Doris had leaned forward with a suppressed eagerness, and she sank back as her eyes filled with tears.
“I am sorry, sorry,” he murmured, “for I too had hoped that I might make some discovery. But there is not a single paper, not the slightest clew.”
“And yet”—said Doris, more to herself than to him—“there was something he—he was going to tell me, some papers; he had them with him the morning——” Her voice broke.
Spenser Churchill listened with the deepest sympathy glowing in his benevolent face.
“Dear, dear!” he murmured. “And he did not tell you? And these papers now? He had them with him, you say? They were not found. I myself did not examine——; but the doctor assured me there was nothing beyond a little money and so on. I fear—I very much fear—that our poor friend must have decided to allow the mystery to remain, and have destroyed the papers you speak of.”