He sent Unity for a screw-driver, and during her short absence looked through the papers in the baskets on the table; but they gave no clue. Unity returned, and locked the door again behind her. Once more they wrenched and jerked the drawer, and this time it gave sufficiently for the edge of the screw-driver to be inserted. And at last the woodwork broke away from the lock and the drawer flew open, and there lay the bright revolver on the sealed envelope just as Unity had described.
Herold sank into the writing-chair, and Unity steadied herself, her hands behind her, against the table.
They regarded each other for a while, pale, panting, breathless.
“Thank God!” he whispered.
“Yes, thank God!”
So they remained, recovering from their almost intolerable relief. John Risca had not killed himself. It was a conclusion logical enough. The probability was that he was alive. But where? What had become of him? With what frenzied intention had he fled from the house?
Presently Unity drew up her squat little figure and closed the mutilated drawer.
“Can she have anything to do with it?” she asked, looking at him steadily.
“She?”
“Yes.”