“And you, Melland?”
“Oh, I was about the house! I don’t remember going into the library, but I might have done so half a dozen times, and forgotten all about it. You gave me permission to borrow books as I chose, and I have been constantly in and out. I could not undertake to say positively what I did on any particular day.”
“Ruth?”
Ruth lifted a miserable face, and shot a glance across the room. There was none of Mollie’s righteous indignation in that glance, only a nervous shrinking which amounted almost to fear.
“I—I was in the library, Uncle Bernard! I photographed it several times that morning. It seemed a good opportunity, as you were upstairs, and I wanted the room for my collection.”
“You were photographing. That means that you would be some little time alone in the room?”
“Yes—no; I came and went. Not so very long,” stammered Ruth hesitatingly. It was terrible to be cross-examined like this, with the eyes of the three men fixed upon her, grave and questioning. She looked wistfully at the door, and half rose from her seat. “I know nothing—I did nothing! I can tell you nothing more! May I go now? There is no use staying any longer.”
“One moment, please! You all deny having touched the will, and I shall, of course, accept your word; but you must help to find the real culprit by giving me every clue in your power. Was any reference made to the will in your presence? Has anyone, for instance, expressed curiosity respecting it and its contents?”
Victor’s eyes turned to Ruth with a glance which brought the colour rushing into her cheek. He did not speak, but his expression was too eloquent to be misread. The old man looked keenly from one to the other, and his voice took an added sharpness as he spoke—
“Well, Druce, out with it—out with it! What is it that you have to say?”