ISS MARCH, you are keeping something back.”
“Mr. Cran, I have answered your questions as fully as I could.”
“You have told me nothing at all—nothing I did not know.”
They faced each other across the broad writing-table in the spacious, lofty, shaded room—a pale shrunken, aged little man in a black velvet dressing-gown and skullcap, and a fresh, straight, blonde, blue-eyed girl in a white linen frock. The time was late summer, the scene the library of an old mansion in Highgate.
The voice of Rufus Cran held neither anger nor reproach; it came quietly, evenly, as one simply stating a conviction. That of Joan March was not so calm, but it betrayed anxiety rather than alarm or resentment, and the girl's attitude was wholly dignified.
“As my secretary,” he resumed at last, “don't you think it is your duty to tell me all you know?”
At that her color ebbed; yet her reply came clearly, steadily. “As my employer,” she said respectfully, “you have the right to dismiss me. I—I shall not insist on the month's notice.”
The thin, pallid lips twitched almost imperceptibly; the sunken eyes left her face to rove idly round the apartment wherein the man had spent so much of his life. It was a handsomely decorated place, red predominating, and expensively and solidly furnished. Two of the walls were lined with books—books of all sizes and all ages; and practically every book had to do with one or another, several or all, of the precious metals known to science. A large safe in the angle of the wall carrying the wide window and that holding the fireplace contained manuscripts on the same subject.
But Rufus Cran was no mere student. If he had the eyes of a dreamer, he had the mouth of a practical man. For near forty years, within his shabby-enough offices in Hatton Garden, he had been dealing in the precious metals themselves—certain of them worth their weight in gold over and over again. He had never married, never gone into society. Some said he was enormously wealthy, and a miser; others declared he spent all his profits on those rare and costly books.
OAN MARCH, bracing herself, waited for him to speak. His keen gaze was upon her again before she was ready.
“Miss March, I offer you five thousand dollars for a straight answer to my last question. Where, at the present moment, is my nephew Douglas Grant?”
Sick at heart, the girl rose and said:
“I am sorry I cannot tell you, Mr. Cran; and now I must ask you to accept my resignation.”
“And I beg to offer you, Miss March, my congratulations on your ability to keep a secret. Kindly shake hands and sit down again. I have much to say to you. I am going to trust you in a great matter.”
She took the proffered hand, and sank upon her chair, shaken and mystified.
“You must not think of deserting me just yet,” he said; and he added a little sadly: “You will be relieved of your duties here soon enough.” He cleared his throat. “Meanwhile I ask you to trust me. The subject is still my nephew, but you need not speak unless you wish. In the first place, you are of course aware of the reason why my nephew left my employment—and my friendship—so hastily two years ago?”
“I have heard a reason,” she answered in a low voice. “I am sure it is not the true one.”
“Ah! You knew my nephew well?”
“He was a frequent visitor to this house, Mr. Cran.”
“You were friends?”
She drew herself up. “Friends—nothing more, I assure you.”
“Pardon my curiosity; it is not idle. You have heard, no doubt, that a discrepancy came to light in certain accounts,—fifteen hundred dollars to be precise,—and that immediately thereafter my nephew went—disappeared.”
“Yes, I have heard all that.”
“And disbelieved it! Very well! Yesterday I received, by registered mail an envelope containing fifteen hundred dollars in bank-notes, along with a single line of writing, which said: 'Repaid by Douglas Grant.' .... Now do you still disbelieve?”
An exclamation of distress escaped her.
“Well, Miss March?”
“No! I don't believe that he took the money.”
“What faith!” said Rufus Cran gently. “But if he didn't take the money, why should he return it?”
She shook her head. “He did not take it; that is all I know.”
He leaned toward her. “And that is all I know, Miss March, but I wish to God I had known it sooner!”
“Oh, you believe in him!” she cried.