The secretary paused as though suddenly conscious that he had said too much.
“Made you wonder about Uncle Clinton?” Margaret prompted.
Larkin did not reply. He looked at the girl; then, apparently governed by an impulse, he nodded his head.
“Larkin,” said Margaret quietly, “I, too, have wondered about my uncle. I cannot understand his hatred of Robert.
“That night the detective came here, I wanted to speak, but what could I say? After all, Uncle Clinton loves me — at least he thinks he is doing the best for my welfare. He never liked Robert, though, and now that Robert has gone I—”
THE girl placed her fingers upon her lips, as though to stop words she did not have the heart to utter. Larkin’s eyes were sympathetic.
“Larkin” — Margaret’s voice became a soft, quavering whisper — “I have weird thoughts every time I talk to Uncle Clinton, concerning Robert. You have been there; perhaps you have sensed it also. I feel that something is being kept from me.”
“You still love Robert?” Larkin asked.
“Yes, and no. I love him because he was sympathetic. But if he has left me, I could never feel the same toward him again.
“If I could find a man who understood me as Robert did; then, perhaps, I could forget my old love for a new. If I could break away from here, I would be better off. But unless I knew that Uncle Clinton was an evil man, it would not be right for me to leave him.