“Certainly, ma’am, but there hasn’t anybody seen him in so long that how could we be blamed for thinking him dead?”
They had reached McArthur’s room. Everything was neatly in place. Suddenly Helen started. A glove with a little brown splotch on it hung over a daguerreotype portrait.
“Whose—whose is that?” she faltered.
“I don’t know, Miss; I don’t know at all.”
“Did—did Mr. McArthur like—anybody?”
Mrs. Adams looked at her sharply.
“Mr. McArthur, Miss, didn’t ever let anybody know his secrets!”
But Helen knew the woman knew, and said quietly:
“You would not hurt my feelings, please tell me.”
“Well, Miss, to be perfectly—that is candid—I think he did.”