“For God’s sake, make no mistake, make no mistake, girl!” he cried in irrepressible agitation. “Look! Look ’em over. Two papers—thin papers—no great size they are.”
She saw that there was something very much amiss, and she searched carefully, but there were no loose papers to be seen. There were boxes on one shelf and bundles of deeds below them, and a great many packets of letters on a shelf above them, but all tied up. She could see no loose papers. None!
He seemed on the verge of collapse, but a new thought came to his support, and he drew her, almost as if he could see, to the other side of the hearth. There he felt for and found the moulding of the panel, he fumbled for the keyhole. But his shaking hands would not do his will, and with a tremulous curse he gave the key to her, and obeying his half-intelligible directions, she unlocked and threw wide first the panel and then the door of the second cupboard.
“Two small papers! Thin papers!” he reiterated. “Look! Look, girl! Are they there? Some one may have moved them. He may have put them here. Search, girl, search!”
But though she obeyed him, looking everywhere, a single glance showed her that there were no two papers there, papers such as he had described. She told him what she saw—the bundles of ancient deeds, the tarnished plate, the jewel cases.
“But no—no loose papers?”
“No, sir, I can see none.”
Convinced at last, he uttered an exceeding bitter cry, a cry that went to the girl’s heart. “Then he has robbed me!” he said. “He has robbed me! A Griffin, and he has robbed me! Get—get me a chair, girl.”
Horrified, she helped him to a chair, and he sank into it, and with a shaking hand he sought for his handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his lips. Then his hands fell until they rested on his lap, his chin dropped on his breast. Two tears ran down his withered cheeks. “A Griffin!” he whispered. “A Griffin! And he has robbed me!”