Polly raised her eyes and contemplated him. “Did you find what you were looking for in your brother’s desk, Mr. Hale?” she inquired.
Hale’s answer was indirect. “Mr. Hale,” he repeated. “Why not—John?”
“No.”
The finality of the monosyllable brought an angry flush to John Hale’s bronzed cheeks, and without another word he swung on his heel, only to pause at the door and again address her.
“Austin’s funeral will take place to-morrow,” he announced, and the next second he was gone.
Many minutes passed before Polly moved, then rising, she walked over to Robert Hale’s desk and went feverishly through his drawers, one question uppermost in her mind—what had John Hale been looking for? She had about completed her self-imposed task when a voice over her shoulder caused her to catch her breath.
“Why are you searching among my husband’s papers?” asked Mrs. Hale.
Polly swung around in Robert Hale’s comfortable chair.
“How you startled me!” she confessed, with a faint tinkling laugh, a laugh which had irritated Mrs. Hale in the past. “Dear Mrs. Hale, how noiselessly you move.”
“Do I?” tartly.