"Hush, my dear!" he whispered. "Not a word--don't want your mother to
know! Listen--have you a specimen--letter--anything--of your cousin, the
Squire's handwriting? Anything so long as it's his. You have? Give it to
me--say nothing to your mother. Wait until tomorrow morning. I'll run
over to see you again--about noon. It's important--but silence!"
Audrey, scarcely understanding the old man's meaning, opened a desk and
drew out one or two letters. She selected one and handed it to Mr.
Dennie, who made haste to put it away before Mrs. Greyle returned. He
gave Audrey another warning look.
"That was what I wanted!" he said mysteriously. "I thought of it during
the inquest. Never mind why, just now--you shall know tomorrow."
He lingered a few minutes, chatting to his hostess about old times as he
sipped the old Squire's famous port; then he went off to the little
station, joined Stafford and his fellow actors and actresses, and
returned with them to Norcaster. And at Norcaster Mr. Dennie separated
himself from the rest and repaired to his quiet lodgings--rooms which he
had occupied for many years in succession whenever he went that way on
tour--and once safely bestowed in them he pulled out a certain
old-fashioned trunk, which he had owned since boyhood and lugged about
wherever he went in two continents, and from it, after much methodical
unpacking, he disinterred a brown paper parcel, neatly tied up with green
ribbon.
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