“Are we to go on all our lives looking for what we can never find?”
“We know the whole contents by heart. Yet every day there is the feeling that something will start into light. It is madness, Constance. I am going mad—like my grandfather, who killed himself. That will end the family tale of woes, so far as I am concerned.”
“Send the book back to its owner.”
He shook his head. “I know it all. That will be no use.”
“Burn the dreadful thing.”
“No use. I should be made to write it all out again.”
“I dropped an envelope in your letter-box last night. Have you opened it?”
“I don’t think I have read a single letter for the last three weeks.”
“Then it must be among the pile. What a heap of letters! Oh, Leonard, you are indeed occupied with this business. I found last night three letters from Langley Holme to his wife. They were written from Campaigne Park; but on what occasion I do not know. I thought at first that I might have found something that would throw a little light upon the business. But of course, when one considers, how could he throw light upon his own tragic end?”
He took the packet carelessly. “Do the letters tell us anything?”