"Could you tell me what was in this note that you left for Ste. Marie?"
Hartley was by nature a very open and frank young man, and in consequence an unusually bad liar. He hesitated and looked away and he began to turn red.
"Well—no," he said after a moment, "no, I'm afraid I can't. It was something you wouldn't understand—wouldn't know about." And the girl said, "Oh!" and remained for a little while silent.
But at the end she looked up and met his eyes, and the man saw that she was very grave. She said—
"Richard, there is something that you and I have been avoiding and pretending not to see. It has gone too far now, and we're got to face it with perfect frankness. I know what was in your note to Ste. Marie. It was what you found out the other evening about—my uncle, the matter of the will and the other matter. He knew about the will, but he told you and Ste. Marie that he didn't. He said to you also that I had told him about my engagement and Ste. Marie's determination to search for Arthur, and that was—a lie. I didn't tell him, and grandfather didn't tell him. He listened in the door yonder and heard it himself. I have a good reason for knowing that.
"And then," she said, "he tried very hard to persuade you and Ste. Marie to take up your search under his direction, and he partly succeeded. He sent Ste. Marie upon a foolish expedition to Dinard, and he gave him and gave you other clues just as foolish as that one.
"Richard, do you believe that my uncle has hidden poor Arthur away somewhere, or—worse than that? Do you? Tell me the truth!"
"There is not," said Hartley, "one particle of real evidence against him that I'm aware of. There's plenty of motive, if you like, but motive is not evidence."
"I asked you a question," the girl said. "Do you believe my uncle has been responsible for Arthur's disappearance?"
"Yes," said Richard Hartley, "I'm afraid I do."