“Yes—the seal which you have traced many times on paper,” and from his coat pocket he drew a number of papers, and held them so that Miriam could see the drawings she had made at odd moments while in the sick room. They were cleverly done—distinct and clear in every detail.
Miriam looked first at them and then up at Trenholm, standing silent and stern by her side.
“Those drawings were in my bag last night,” she stammered. “How did you get them?”
“I examined your bag,” calmly.
Her eyes were dark with anger. Twice her voice failed her. “You are impossible—intolerable—” she gasped, and turning ran toward Abbott’s Lodge, in her blind haste passing Alan Mason without recognition. The latter stopped and stared after her, then catching sight of Guy Trenholm standing patiently by his mare, he whistled softly to himself.
CHAPTER XI
THE FOLDED NOTE
The undertaker’s assistant looked in deep embarrassment at Betty Carter as he remained standing in front of the closed door of the room where lay Paul Abbott’s body.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” he said. “Those are the sheriff’s orders. No one is to go into the room now.”
“But why?” demanded Betty. “The funeral will be held in half an hour, and”—her voice quivered—“I want to—to see him before the casket is closed.”
Thompson moved uneasily from one foot to the other; Betty’s distress disturbed him. “I’m very sorry,” he mumbled. “Indeed I am—but it’s not possible. Perhaps,” his face brightened as the idea occurred to him, “perhaps you can see Mr. Trenholm and get his permission. Here he comes now,“ as a figure appeared at the far end of the corridor and came toward them. “Oh, pshaw! it’s a woman.”