"I hate him," said the woman harshly and clenching her fist: "I have cause to hate him."
"Had my father cause also?" asked Allen pointedly.
She looked away. "I don't know," she answered gloomily. "Strode and your father were very intimate all their lives, till both married. Then we saw very little of him. He was not a good man--Strode, I mean, Allen. If my word has any weight with you, stop this search."
The young man rose and began to pace the library. "Mother, I must take up the search," he said in an agitated voice, "for my father's sake. No one but myself must search for the assassin."
"What do you mean by that?" questioned Mrs. Hill, sitting very upright and frowning darker than ever.
Allen replied by asking a question. "Who knows that my father is called Lawrence, mother?"
Mrs. Hill uttered an ejaculation of surprise and grew pale. "Who told you he was called so?"
"I found the name in an old book of Cowper's poems given by Mr. Strode to my father in their college days. It was presented to Harold Lawrence Hill."
"I remember the book," said Mrs. Hill, recovering her composure. "But what is odd about your father having two names? He certainly has dropped the Lawrence and calls himself simply, Harold Hill--but that is for the sake of convenience. Only those who knew him in his young days would know the name of Lawrence."
"Ah!" said Allen, thoughtfully turning over the brown paper, "then this was sent by some one who knew him in his young days."