Helen rose slowly to her feet, stretching her cramped limbs carefully as she did so, and sank down in the nearest chair. Her attitude indicated dejection.
“Then we can't find the envelope,” she muttered. “Hurry, Babs, and close the outer door; father may return at any moment.”
Barbara obeyed the injunction with such alacrity that the door, concealing the space in the wall where stood the safe, flew to with a bang and the twins jumped nervously.
“Take care!” exclaimed Helen sharply. “Do you wish to arouse the household?”
“No danger of that.” But Barbara glanced apprehensively about the library in spite of her reassuring statement. “The servants are either out or upstairs, and Margaret Brewster is writing letters in our sitting room.”
“Hadn't you better go upstairs and join her?” Helen suggested. “Do, Babs,” as her sister hesitated. “I cannot feel sure that she will not interrupt us.”
“But my joining her won't keep Margaret upstairs,” objected Barbara.
“No, but you can call and warn me if she is on her way down, and that will give me time to—to straighten father's papers,” going over to a large carved table littered with magazines, letters, and silver ornaments. Her sister did not move, and she glanced at her with an irritated air, very foreign to her customary manner. “Go, Barbara.”
The curt command brought a stare from Barbara, but it did not accelerate her halting footsteps; instead she moved with even greater slowness toward the hall door; her active brain tormented with an unspoken and unanswered question. Why was Helen so anxious for her departure? She had accepted her offer of assistance in her search of the library with such marked reluctance that Barbara had marveled at the time, and now...
“Are you quite sure, Helen, that father had the envelope in his pocket this morning?” she asked for the third time since the search began.