I recollected that letter written by the man who had loved her, and the allegations he had made.
“Do you know,” I said, “the other night I had burglars at my home. They tried to break open the safe which contains that mysterious cylinder given into my charge by Mr Melvill Arnold.”
“The cylinder!” she gasped, instantly turning pale as death. “Ah! that hateful cylinder, which brings upon its possessor misfortune and disaster. Why don’t you get rid of it, Mr Kemball?”
“I have. It is now in the Safe Deposit Company’s vaults in Chancery Lane.”
She held her breath, her gaze fixed upon me. Then involuntarily she laid her slim white hand upon my coat-sleeve, and said—
“I—I always fear for your safety, Mr Kemball, while that thing is in your possession. Give it away. Destroy it—anything—only get rid of it!”
“But I cannot until the third of November. I accepted a sacred trust, remember, given by a dying man,” I said.
“Yes—but—”
“But what?” I asked. Then in a low voice, as I bent towards her, I added: “Miss Seymour, I have deep suspicion that your father—a friend of Arnold’s—knows what the cylinder contains, and is extremely eager to get possession of it. Is not that so?”
She was silent. Her lips moved nervously. Her indecision to speak told me the truth. We were friends, therefore she could not deliberately lie to me.