“I think I have come,” he answered slowly, “for the same purpose as yourself!”
And he looked at the papers in her hand.
“I used to be Mr. Parrish’s secretary, you know,” he said.
The girl sighed—a little fluttering sigh—and looked earnestly at him.
“I remember,” she said. “Hartley liked you. He was sorry that he sent you away. He often spoke of you to me. But why have you come back? What do you mean by saying you have come for the same purpose as myself?”
Bruce Wright looked at the array of letter-trays. The marble paper-weight had been displaced. The tray in which it had lain was empty. He looked at the sheaf of papers in the girl’s hand.
“I wanted to see,” he replied, “whether there was anything here ... on his desk ... which would explain the mystery of his death ...”
The girl spread out the papers in her hand on the big blotter.
She laid the papers out in a row and leant forward, her white arms resting on the desk. From the other side of the desk the boy leant eagerly forward and scanned the line of papers.
At the first glimpse his face fell. The girl, eyeing him closely, marked the change which came over his features.