“I fear so, sir, though when or how I cannot say. I was ill, very ill, for a time after Paula’s—death. They were in an escritoire in my bedroom, and after I recovered I found they were gone.”
“Do you suspect anyone?”
Boris shook his head.
“Impossible to suspect the good friend with whom I live, or any of my visitors. I have wondered sometimes whether, in my delirium, I might not myself have destroyed them, on some subconscious impulse, remembering that she had told me to burn them. They could not possibly be of any value, or of any danger, to anyone. Except to myself, they were quite meaningless, and with nothing but the hand-writing itself to show by whom they were written.”
“Strange,” mused Sir Robert. “You are sure they were as harmless, as meaningless, as you say?”
“Quite sure. And may I say this, Sir Robert? I am certain that when Paula took those papers from your safe—as I fear there is no doubt she did—that it was the very first time she had done or attempted to do such a thing: that she yielded to a sudden and overwhelming temptation.”
“I wish I could believe that,” said Sir Robert with stern sadness.
“You may believe it, sir, for it is the truth. She would have told me of any such attempt, and I give you my word—believe it or not as you choose—that I should have attempted to dissuade her. I am a fighter—or I was one, when I could fight and could see my enemy—but I am no intriguer, nor was she really. She bewildered me often by her romantic schemes—they were so wild, so vague—but I humoured her in them, because I loved her, because it brought her nearer to me. It—oh, how can I put it?—it was like child’s play, though she herself was so much in earnest.”
“Child’s play!” echoed Sir Robert bitterly. “Child’s play that cost her life, and that will cost the life of the one whom, next to her, I cared for most in this world! I tell you, Melikoff——”