“She has given him no grounds for divorce.”
Unity twisted her handkerchief in her hands. “I suppose there comes a time,” she said, “when people can't stand any more suffering, and they break down or do something dreadful.”
“Your guardian is too strong for that,” replied Herold.
“I don't know. I don't know.” The mothering instinct spoke. “That 's what I 've come to ask you about. I'm frightened.”
She turned on him a miserable, scared face and told him of her discovery. She had gone into her guardian's study that morning in order to tidy up, and had seen that he had left the key in the lock of his private drawer, with the rest of the bunch hanging from it. She had opened the drawer and found, lying on top of some documents one of which was a sealed envelope endorsed “My Will,” a loaded revolver and a case of cartridges. She knew that the revolver was loaded because she had examined it. Then, hearing his step, she had shut the drawer, and gone on with her dusting. He had entered, locked the drawer, put the bunch in his pocket, and gone out without a word.
Herold looked grave. More in order to gain time for reflection than to administer a moral lesson, he said:
“You should n't have searched his private drawer, Unity.”