Allen looked on the manuscript thus suddenly produced in mute wonder. With a swift glance he questioned Dora as to what it was--for he could not yet bring himself to believe that it was the lost paper--and how she had come by it. The girl afforded him at once a concise explanation.
"It is the paper containing an account of the early life of Mr. Edermont," said she, with a nod; "the manuscript stolen from the bureau, on account of which we believe the murder to have been perpetrated. I found it in the cottage of Joad."
"In the cottage of Joad?" echoed Allen slowly. "How did he come by it?"
"By robbery and murder. He is the guilty person."
"Dora--are you sure? He proved an alibi, you know."
"I am aware of that, and I am aware also how he prepared such alibi. It is a long story, Allen. I shall tell it to you, and then we will read the manuscript together."
"I am all attention," cried Allen, settling himself on the sofa. "Go on, you most wonderful girl."
"I am a most unfortunate girl," said Dora sadly. "By my discovery I have saved you from arrest, and perhaps condemnation, and myself from a marriage which revolted me. But what is left after all, my dear? Nothing, nothing. We can never be anything but friends to one another, for our lives have been ruined by the sins of other people. It is cruelly hard."
"You speak only too truly, Dora," said Allen, taking her hand. "And I can give you no comfort; I can give myself no consolation. Your father's crime has parted us, and we must suffer vicariously for his guilt."
For a moment or so they remained silent, thinking over the hopelessness of their position. But matters were too important and pressing to admit of much time being wasted in useless lamentations. Dora was the first to recover her speech, and forthwith related the events of the day, from the conversation of Meg Gance down to the visit to Carver. Allen interrupted her frequently with exclamations of surprise.