"To find out what her secret was," Broughton answered, passionately. He clenched his hands till the knuckles were white, and his heavy-featured face, shaped by half a century of business life into lines of impassive self-control, was wrenched by emotion that was half pitiful, half ludicrous. "To find out what hold this man Lawrence has upon her,--to kill him, perhaps,--"
"Lawrence? Good heavens, what nonsense!" cried Lyon. "What made you connect her with Lawrence in any way?"
"I told you that it was a letter that came from Waynscott that first upset her. She had been happy before that I swear it. She was happy and content as my wife. Then his letters came--"
"What made you think they were from him? Did you see any of them?"
"I found one, partly burnt, in the fireplace in her bedroom. I could make out the signature plainly,--it was Arthur Lawrence."
"You could read nothing else?"
"No, but I, found her unfinished answer in her writing desk."
"What did she say?" asked Lyon, in a calm voice.
Broughton struggled to keep his voice steady. "She said that she was the most unhappy woman in the world,--God, I had been so happy!--that he had been right in warning her against marrying me, and that she must see him. I had no chance to read more, for she was coming, and I could not let her suspect I had seen anything. But I made my plans from that moment. I told her that I was called away on a sudden business trip. As I expected, as soon as I was off, she started for Waynscott. I followed her, in this disguise. She went at once to Lawrence's office,--"
"His law office, in the Equity Building?"