His cousin let off a bomb beneath the broker's feet. "You'll be glad to know that the paper wasn't destroyed," he said. "I have it, with a translation, in my pocket at the present moment."
James clutched the arms of his chair. His knuckles grew white with the strain. "Where—where did you find it?" he managed to say.
"In the most private drawer of your safe, where you hid it," Kirby replied quietly.
Cunningham visibly fought for his composure. He did not speak until he had perfect self-control. Then it was with a sneer.
"And this paper which you allege you found in my safe—after a burglary which, no doubt, you know is very much against the law—does it convict me of the murder of my uncle?"
The tension in the room was nerve-shattering. Men and women suspended breathing while they waited for an answer.
"On the contrary, it acquits you of any guilt whatever in the matter."
Phyllis Cunningham gave a broken little sob and collapsed into her husband's arms. Jack rose, his face working, and caught his brother by the shoulder. These two had suffered greatly, not only because of their fear for him, but because of the fear of his guilt that had poisoned their peace.
James, too, was moved, as much by their love for him as by the sudden relief that had lifted from his heart. But his pride held him outwardly cold.
"Since you've decided I didn't do it, Mr. Lane, perhaps you'll tell us then who did," he suggested presently.