He drew a key from his pocket and went up the stairway.
THERE was a strained silence after Henry Marchand had gone.
Willis was obviously ill at ease. His face expressed the concern of his conscientious nature. He was hoping that Marchand would find nothing wrong in the room which the old man valued as a sanctuary.
Oscar was as impassive as ever. Paget seemed indifferent.
Doctor Lukens, knowing nothing of the matter which had been discussed, sat in a chair and lighted a cigar, content to await Marchand’s return.
Willis glanced at Paget. The man in evening clothes shrugged his shoulders. The action reassured the young secretary.
Paget had belittled the matter of the attempted burglary. He knew, as did Willis, that Henry Marchand kept very little of value in the house.
The safe in the old man’s room harbored only a miscellaneous cluster of papers. Willis had arranged these under his employer’s direction before Marchand had gone away. Hence Paget’s attitude expressed the thought, “Why worry?”
Minutes moved by. There was no attempt at conversation. Each man in the downstairs room seemed content with his own thoughts. They appeared to have imbibed the spirit of gloom which hung throughout the antiquated house.
The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve.