The first thought of Miss Jemima was that her brother had gone mad. Then she examined the shoe more closely.
“To be sure!” she said. “How foolish of me! Those cuts were made long ago.”
As she spoke, she put her hand on the table at the bedside, to steady herself.
“Brother,” she demanded, in trembling tones, “where did you get this shoe? Did it come by the morning post?”
“Cobbler” Horn answered deliberately. He would give his sister time to take in the meaning of his words.
“It has been in the possession of Miss Owen. She brought it to me just now.”
“Miss Owen?”
Miss Jemima’s first impulse was towards indignation. What had Miss Owen been doing with the shoe? But the next moment, she reflected that there must be some reasonable explanation of the fact that the shoe had been in the possession of her brother’s secretary—though what that explanation might be Miss Jemima could not, as yet, divine.
“She has had it,” resumed “Cobbler” Horn, in the same quiet tone as before, “ever since she was a little girl. She was wearing it when she was found by the good people by whom she was adopted.”
Then light came to Miss Jemima, clear and full. She grasped her brother’s shoulder, and remembered his weakness only just in time to refrain from giving him a vigorous shake.