"Upon this latter melancholy subject he entirely sympathises with you. His grief of course has long abated, but his indignation survives."
"And well it may, sir. And what does he say of the paper that disappeared?"
"He thinks, madam, that it was stolen."
"Ha! So do I."
The confidential and secret nature of their talk had drawn their heads together, and lowered their voices.
"He thinks it was abstracted by one of the Marlowe family."
"Which of them? Go on, sir."
"Well, by old Sir Harry Marlowe, the father of Sir Jekyl."
"It certainly was he; it could have been no other; it was stolen, that is, I don't suppose by his hand; I don't know, perhaps it was; he was capable of a great deal; I say nothing, Monsieur Varbarriere."
Perhaps that gentleman thought she had said a good deal; but he was as grave on this matter as she.