PASSION
She came to him in a few moments, dressed in a fascinating negligée gown,—came to him with a rustle of silk and a faint expression of surprise upon her upraised eyebrows.
"I did not expect you until this evening," she remarked.
He nodded. "I took the liberty of coming here to ask you a question."
She smiled as she sat down upon the sofa. "Oh, the paper is quite safe."
"How did you know what I came for?" he asked, a little startled.
"My dear friend," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "as I have decided that it is to my interests to link my future with yours, you cannot wonder that I have found such details as those"—she pointed to an evening paper which he noticed now lying upon her writing-table—"interesting. I have been trying to understand how matters stand. Tell me if I am right! It seems to me that so long as that document remains an imagined thing, so long as it is not produced or sworn to definitely, you are safe."
"The corporation is safe," answered Deane, "and in a measure, I suppose, I am. On the other hand, I shall be accused, naturally, of suppressing it, and probably of complicity in Sinclair's murder. There is Hefferom, you see, prepared to swear that Sinclair came to London with that paper in his possession. Sinclair is known to have come to my office. He has certainly been murdered. The paper cannot be found, and the corporation remains in possession of the mine. People will certainly put these things together."
She nodded. "It will be very bad indeed," she said slowly, "for your reputation."
"It will, I am afraid," said Deane, "considerably lessen my social value as your husband."