Returning to the table, he placed two large miniature cases in my hand. I eagerly seized them.
"Don't look at them now," he resumed, "or we shall have a scene—wait until you are alone. I found them among my brother's papers, and had forgotten all about them, until I chanced to stumble over them in the bustle of removing."
I hid away the precious relics in my bosom, and was about to quit the room.
"Sit down, Geoffrey," he said, with a grim smile, "you are too sober to go to bed yet."
I filled the glass mechanically, but it remained untasted before me.
"By the by," continued my uncle, in a careless tone, which his eager glance contradicted, "what has become of your friend Harrison?"
"I wish I knew. His absence is a great loss to me."
"Who and what is this Harrison? You were his confidant, and, doubtless, know."
"Of his private history, nothing."
My uncle's large dark eyes were looking into my soul. I felt that he doubted my word. "He has, I believe, been unfortunate, and is reduced in his circumstances. His moral character, I know to be excellent."