"I don't believe she kept any letters," he repeated, then glanced uncertainly at the lady's-maid who stood primly by.
"Mrs. Pargeter kept some letters in that writing-desk over there, sir,—at least I think she did."
Close to the small tent-bed stood an old-fashioned rosewood davenport, a relic of Margaret Pargeter's childhood and girlhood, brought from her distant English home.
The maid waited for a moment, and then added, "The desk is locked, sir."
"Locked? Then did Mrs. Pargeter take her keys with her?"
"I suppose she did, sir."
"Then it's no use," said Pargeter, with a certain relief, "I don't want to force the thing open."
Vanderlyn looked across, coldly and steadily, at the woman. Her expression struck him as oddly enigmatical; meeting his glance, Plimmer reddened, her eyes dropped. "I expect any simple key would open it," he said, briefly.
"Well, sir, I did ask the housekeeper to lend me a bunch of keys. Here they are," she opened one of the dressing-table drawers. "Perhaps one of the smaller ones would fit the lock."
It was Vanderlyn who took the keys from her strangely reluctant hand, and it was he who at last felt the old-fashioned lock yield.