“Yes.”
“Have you found anything—anything—about Hugh?” The listless voice was keen and eager enough now.
“No—nothing,” he told her.
“Are you sure, Stephen?”
“Quite,” he said sadly. “Why, dear, what makes you think——”
“I don’t know—only—something told me——” She rose and came towards the writing-table. Stephen moved too, getting between her and it—“I felt—that we should find something here that would help us prove his innocence—that would bring him back to me.”
The man who loved her as neither Hugh nor Richard Bransby had, winced at the love and longing in the girl’s voice. But he answered her gently, “There is nothing here.” For a space he stood staring at the table, puzzled, thinking hard. “Helen.”
“Well?” she was back at the window now, looking idly out at the leafless, snow-crusted trees.
“Had Uncle Dick any secret cupboard or safe where he kept important papers?”
“No—you know he hadn’t. He always kept his important things at the office—you know that.”